If I run so fast my heart bites its veins away,

If I scream so loud my ears vomit tears and shrapnel,

If I turn my nose up at the Sun and let my head dim the heat,

If I turn everything else to

a low, reassuring glimmer of gasping color and heaving sound,

If my eyes never adjust to the clouds, or the blood-bright yellow visible from beneath,

If I embody cotton and emblazon fire,

If I make the earth my trampoline and the sky my jackpot,

Maybe,

Just maybe,

I can take off.

But I'm not an airplane.

So I put myself in one.

And create hatred out of pixelated ink

As it leaves the earth behind,

a very happy creature

with a very unhappy poet

inside.