burning bridges

I’ve lost count of the number of

bridges I’ve burnt,

sort of like that number of partners

you’ve been with;

it becomes irrelevant at some point.

I burned them like I was being chased

by some unwanted baby mama(s).

in all fairness, once you’ve crossed

the bridge,

what’s the point of keeping it there?

a connection to what’s behind us

is the only thing holding us back.

so I say,

burn those mutha fucking bridges

down till your eyelashes and eyebrows

are singed off

and your nose is filled with the foul

odor of burned follicle:

it only smells that awful because

that was the nasty shit hanging on

to you, not wanting to let go.


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Recently moved back to the States after living 16 months in Vietnam. I write to remove the thoughts trapped in the cobwebs of my psyche before the spider envelopes me whole.

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