Rarely would I believe in stars connecting souls
Or that we could come together sure enough if we would align goals
That a red thread brings strangers together
And that your course of life cannot chance no matter what, or whether
You think you're alone


That you stare at the same night sky, somewhere out there
That love sees us through, even if we don't know where
Or who the other is
That this is what love is
It's precipice


That you count on a map from province to province
Will the hobby bring either prominence?
That even underneath the same night sky
We could think, wonder cry
If souls find love even when their bodies die

That skies open, that rain falls down on the same earth
That since birth, it was predestined souls will meet


That the theory states, that somewhere out there, if it was love, then said souls will come to meet for the first time, or even once more
Regardless of goals, of cares or hate


Cause somewhere out there, a beautiful soul owns your name, your likeness, and it wouldn't be the same
If I never knew, you were somewhere out there

he’s a chalk line  
unraveled across butcher paper  
too wide to fold,  
too loud to hide.

his head floats  
above the mess of body—  
not divine,  
just misplaced.  
an outline sketched by someone  
who’s never seen a man,  
only damage.

******  
scrawled like a slur  
or an apology  
depending on who’s holding the crayon.

red here  
black there  
yellow like old teeth  
and **** on concrete  
somewhere kids still play  
with burnt plastic  
thinking it’s treasure.

you don’t see a plane,  
you see  
the after.  
the whitewash.  
the price tag taped to memory  
in three languages.

anola gay—  
name of a plane  
name of a boy  
name of a mother  
depending on how close you were  
to the sound.

his eyes are just  
holes.  
no pupils.  
no reason.  
just a place for history to leak out.

this isn’t symbolism.  
this isn’t metaphor.  
this is what happens  
when a man becomes  
the thing he was told  
he never had to answer for.

you want a message?  
here:  
paint doesn’t dry  
on blood.  

and the crown?  
wasn’t earned.  
just left behind.

there was a raccoon,
who wore a mask.
not because he needed to hide,
but because the mask
helped him see.

his mask wasn’t made of cloth
or leather,
but of his own eyes—
two dark, gleaming windows
that could look at the world
and become whatever he needed.

he didn’t wear it out of shame,
no—
he wore it because
it gave him permission
to be more
than he’d ever been told he could be.
it let him try on
every shape,
every name,
every possibility
he’d never dared to touch.

the raccoon was a thief, yes,
but he stole only what was already his.
his happiness,
his strength,
his soft little victories
the raccoon’s mask was not a disguise,
but a gift—
a gift he gave himself
every day
and wore like a crown.

because the raccoon knew:
you don’t have to fit
into what the world says you should be.
sometimes,
you have to steal your joy—
and wear it like a mask
that lets you dance
in the light
of your own making.

and when the mask came off at night,
he was still him.
and that was enough.