Has a first sketch never gone wrong?
The pencils were the criminals, I swear.

I speak of the pencils possessed
by a girl with innocent thoughts.
The ones that nudge white space into corners
when its toes meets the motherland.
Yesterday, they robbed purity
out of daylight’s skin.

Today, with sharpened beaks,
they began drilling words into walls;
covering up unworthy cracks
with words like “sorry”,
“i tried”.

The perpetrators sneak onto the paper:
it is carbon at twelve. I am sure
we see the moon and stars.
But the judge misses
the entire blanket,
frowning at black holes instead.

He hands her the fourth sentence
and issues a warning
to cover them up.
“erase” and “re-do”,

as if the strokes she mastered
left papers with less justice. At
the end of the day, the sky
is just as sinful, just as
the humans could ever try.



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