Dichotomy
I called it “The Dichotomy,”
not because I knew someone
had already used the title
(that was after I wrote what I wrote)
but because I loved the word—
the way it tore itself apart
I called it “The Dichotomy,”
not because I knew someone
had already used the title
(that was after I wrote what I wrote)
but because I loved the word—
the way it tore itself apart
Freedom means choosing your light, picking which part of the day means most, rising with mourning doves and dew, or celebrating the moon’s evolution. What becomes of the sunrise, you writers already know: Daytime. Clockwork. Clouds and showers, temperatures based on the Earth’s hot moods. Evening feels so much smoother, starlight beaming you
I yanked the fragment from my eye, through burst blood vessels glimpsed clearly the one still in yours, jutting through the soft membrane of what you consider truth, teargas and tanks. What to do when an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.