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Nostalghia gunned

I don't miss
this gun is stable
as my hand
as my feet on concrete

I don't miss
I might neither create nor become
good enough because I do
insufficiently

but I don't miss
the world looks worse through me
my voice hurts, my hands have thorns
I spit poison and sip back nothing up

however
I don't miss
a day, a word

when I aim, I shoot
and the bullet gets its right place in the flesh
I never miss.