There are people
who crowd country gates-
tall, wide conceptual things-
escaping from crueler,
realer things.


There are people
who play other people’s
insecure heart strings,
looking for an exit, to find a home,
to live their dreams.


There are people
who hide in plain site,
becoming you, becoming me,
hiding from those who’d take them back
to where they used to be.

…Then there are people
who demand their own exile,
clawing at gates they needn’t claw,
attempting to square the circles
of their identity.

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