We get by with our hands tied,
minding our own business, isn't this just forgiveness: for getting out of the one-track, one-mind, bee-hive; behind which we find ourselves hiding? It's kinda the same: blaming ourselves for this friction fit, kinda listening, prickled skin-style relationship.
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I could not ignite a fire with the things I love,
though the empty spaces they leave can fuel one. My dreams are combustible now, thoughts like kindling. * The moths don't care, but the clock does: the flames lick my fingertips but the hands just tick. * I can only look up. The lights flicker in the sky and at my heels. I don't look back, but I know my footprints to be ash. I feed the beast, and I no longer feel alone. |
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November 2019
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