my epitaph until I have picked
enough fights just for the small
happiness of slamming one million
doors-- don't write my eulogy until
I've broken the bindings of enough
books, felt my feet grow cold
with the knowledge of enough
Novembers--and don't lower
me into the hard dirt, not until
I've watched enough people pick out
fruit at the grocery store, eyes fluttering
shut like thin pieces of paper,
stealing grapes away in their wet
mouths when they think
no one is looking
i like the grapes bit a lot
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