call this my state

ribbons of roads lined with trees

this is my deciduous forest

this is my home

on the corner

I am infinitely alone

growing up in a dying city

is a paradox of sorts

I can’t see what my mother saw

the good in this city that persuaded her to choose it

above all others

but I’m still young

and have little to compare it to

I can’t show you any mercy

as I rip myself away

like a Band-Aid from skin

the only way to go out

is with a bang

because I’m not going far

and I might be back later

more ready

than you’ve ever been

born an open road

a highway

a skyway

the Brooklyn Bridge knows your name

are we going to fade away

when we leave this place?

a shooting star cutting across the sky

pack our bags in the last hour of the night

flesh can tell

can tell when things are changing

moving, growing


Written by Jill Sarah Greenberg. 

Jill is a photographer, feminist, apple eater, Oxford comma user, early bird, and night owl. Follower her on Twitter and Instagram at @jilleatsapples.

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