Washes all thought to the gutter,
Where it sits, pockmarked and painless,
While I attempt to process the news that
I'm stuck on the day the apocalypse took all feeling
From my fingertips and left a gray stripe on my forearm
Which burns whenever touched,
Reminding me of the graceless butterflies who hijack my feet
Thinking to fly, but run instead
Over shattered bullet shells, tripping at every possible moment,
Eroding the skin from my feet, setting all the insects free
To hurt me again.
Twittering birds often shove the talent I had hoped for
Between the sticks of their nest,
Intertwining my dreams and beliefs with mud
For the good of their children.
Even if it leaves me devoid of flame and water.
I speak too much when no one is
listening.
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