One
is not the exposition of hair breaking
or scars and mistaking
Not the effects of leftover alcohol in your soul
or even your turned out closet.
One is
What makes of those moments,
all put together
of breaking hairs and of mornings beyond alcohol
Spirits are never made to be worn out
One becomes what one puts up
or lets go off, like decorations
one is collected in attics through the years
and one is vibrantly polished like glass surfaces-
One never stops growing,
old, but somehow taller, or heavier
Truthful but somehow leaner
One's self stretches its wings enough
to fit the world
yet awes at where other selves start.
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