Imagine being born into a world that bites back
Thrown here with no stepping stones
The clatter of flag poles; the chatter of fallen leaves
—this is home and hell.
Cold carcasses carried in the arms of Small Town,
Puppeteering inert skin with heartstrings,
Collecting taxes or cemetery-addressed love letters or me.
Muffled chirps and benches left barren
Hooked on minority famine.
But these eulogies are not compulsory
Because sometimes escape is recovery
So as new-home warmth overwhelms
And the fiery frigidity subsides
We are finally granted a goodbye
Jaxon Farmer (he/him) is a seventeen-year old student from Ohio who values language as the vehicle for reflection and advocacy. This comes to fruition most often within the Speech & Debate sphere. He attempts to craft his works as a patchwork of the beautiful incongruity of identity.