Is getting a gun permit in Alabama
as easy as getting a marriage license
in Indiana—
both a government sanctity,
to have and to hold?
I’m not sure.
But rejection feels more likely
when you're trying to publish a poem.
But rejection feels more likely
when you're trying to publish a poem.
One poem. One rejection.
That’s 100%.
That’s 100%.
A true Libra—indecisive,
relieved someone else called it.
relieved someone else called it.
I love rejection.
Tell me no, and I can lie back—
no work, no hope, no follow-up.
No more what-ifs.
No juggling.
Don’t ask what I want.
Just tell me what won’t happen.
Not now. Maybe never.
Just tell me what won’t happen.
Not now. Maybe never.
Maybe a gun permit in Alabama
isn’t like a marriage license in Indiana
at all—
maybe it’s not even like a rejected poem:
filed away, too tired to explain.
Just know
you could tell me no.
Tell me no again.
No. To a gun permit.
you could tell me no.
Tell me no again.
No. To a gun permit.
No. To marriage.
Or yes—twice.
No. To a poem.
You make the call.
I'll accept it.
Or yes—twice.
No. To a poem.
You make the call.
I'll accept it.
I couldn’t defend myself—
no gun, remember?
Couldn’t run—
households are heavy.
I could write.
But who would read it?
Two people.
Maybe. Maybe not
no gun, remember?
Couldn’t run—
households are heavy.
I could write.
But who would read it?
Two people.
Maybe. Maybe not
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