Fiona Apple waited until she was forty-two to give us a line from when she was fifteen
Thirty-one/nineteen
Marble smoothness melting to a waxy rot, rich giving the impression of being smart
I got sick, I got sad, I came back, I don’t know why
War cries felt like a candle that never burnt out, exhausting for nothing but grief
Who knows where the torch is now
Only that I can pray though forgiveness is harder // Dona nobis pacem
Waiting for penitence is a drop in the ocean from when you metaphorically spit and simultaneously crushed me // Dona nobis pacem
With which there came no warning // Dona nobis pacem
