I am (year of the snake)

like a serpent, not in

the metaphorical

but very physical

as a creature making due without legs

on land.

You are

like snakes

at a throat,

or in a basket,

I can’t decide which,

for a year of self-portraits

done with invisible ink.

I am an anaconda killer,

not literal, but literature-wise,

a concept I hope you

grasp in the night after terrifying movies,

a chill you feel when you exhale through pitch screens,

a dull numbness you claw at in the darks of truth.

Poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

some art is not.

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