live to see tomorrow, close your eyes to remember yesterday

crappy and long but it is late and i am tired of so much

chipped nail-polish, 
dead houseplants, 
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
little things

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. 

The End

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