You position yourself and
you do not know if things will turn out,
though you’ve bled a little, and hoped, and hated.
And there are worse things in the world
if your words return to you, flat yellow and slightly
dishonest, and you have to swallow hard because they belong to you.
There are worse things than that.
So you keep sending them out, you keep pushing, letting the dead ones die,
because what else can you do?