Never wanted to be a victim. Yet i’d sit on the winding balcony jackknife and lighter in my hand with other women and men supplicating wounds by engendering more wounds. It was a way of being for to a point like deathrow dogs or human innocents we had been gutted: of the organs from which voice sourced its grit of cattail pain gathers on roadside.
But never wanted to be seen as victim by self by other. We told. Some compared; what’s that i’0d say. Doesnt matter how many pounds the corrupt hours or minutes or eons seen passing from padlocked closets — the cargo will snap more than a hunt’s fox.
You’d given up on the world a man said. Later. Lazarus. Wheelchairs of the heart. You thought the world had given up on you. Do you know what it means, to fill your body with rusted stopsigns inherited…
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