i bound my breasts with words so tightly knitted
that i could scarcely breathe
through the rusted yarn
made of fraying thoughts
i wish i could taste the final breath on a warriors lips
kiss her bleeding mouth
Anoint myself in her tears
and have her story
melt across my palette like
Is there a god who carries wounded souls in an empty flask?
do they, like the living,
grow weary of the clutter and the stench
and wish instead for a plastic shield
made of ancient graves
and tar-colored blood?
are they also frightened of freedom?
what happens when all hope is swept away on salty breezes
or the dust
or a moth’s wings?
who are we when the weak can no longer sing?
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