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the sky is stuffed with clouds
and moisture fills the cracks in my lips
wide as canyons as I tear through flesh
searching for some control or maybe
another way to live that isn’t quite so
disappointing
How does one exist without
splattering thoughts against concrete
reaching for hands you thought
were extended but no
it’s only the limbs of trees planted
long before your body
was used as leverage in
this war with humanity
How does the wind not have
a backache from all that it carries
Can it teach me what to do with
all of these secrets because
I don’t recognize my own scent
and I’ve got pheromones like
a child forcing a jigsaw
into its proper shape
and what will my limbs look like
once the chaos finds its footing

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