crappy and long but it is late and i am tired of so much
crushed paper stars,
raw red scratches.
this is what i am made of
i've got 74 and counting,
folded pieces of scraps
that i twist into four-pointed
they fill my pockets,
stars in one,
paper in the other
the tiny ones get ripped,
and creased in all the wrong places
i give them away with fumbling fingertips,
cradled in my worn palms,
gifts of no worth.
created out of scrap paper,
old printed words and useless sheet music
the figures dance across the page
and bending over points
my fingers are worn,
weathered deep in the skin,
pale pink polish chipping away on my nails,
there is nothing left but a faint border of color
against my cuticles
and here i go again
trying to fit into myself,
trailing fingertips over the fading blossoms
that open, go from closed to flowering
one is bending, straining under the weight
of its numerous petals, and i close twin blades around its neck,
snip it neatly off the stalk it sprouts from
with a pair of silver scissors
and even this,
beheaded, decapitated plant
the flower floating in a clear glass bowl
filled with room-temperature water
signifies to me a thin veneer of civility
it is beautiful
suspended like that
but it will soon be dead
just like me
with my stomach soft and doughy,
vulnerable to a sharp blade,
metal slicing disorganized lines of red blood
i thought i got away from this
i thought i had managed to escape
but this is a demon i cannot outrun so easily,
sinking through the ground as i try to move my legs
i am at war,
and my guns are jammed.
i hurry to reassure myself,
sinking hands into the flesh of my arms,
forgoing the far-too-forgiving skin of my stomach.
the raw exposure will fade,
bleeding cuts will heal.
this is my physical legacy,
what i leave behind within myself.
meet the new age.