there is no remaining wonder
about the terror tucked beneath a few
i see it on the table, recognize and reflect,
and realize
i am less.
because what recourse remains
when martyrdom is a market, the forum for salvation,
and sells hearts and wings and the beady little eyes
of dead things long forgotten by the children
who once loved them,
who learned love from them?
where are my hands if not behind my back?
i am less.
for when i am
hopeless helpless hapless heartless
and i hurt less
there is lightness, brightness rightness
tainted taunted tortured tramatized
and less.
and i am not myself

One thought on “Less

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