The Bits of Me

Sometimes there are bits of me that scream energy, a fierce kind of passion. Those bits rise and carry me with them and the tingling at the back of my neck and my hair rising and full with goosebumps.

But they die quickly.

The most of me is afraid and quivering and hiding. Full stop.

the most of me wants to run away but also fight and combat in a broken kind of way, in a way that is marked, in a way that is branded, in a way that doesn’t want to bother to tell you that how you’re living is wrong and how I’m living is wrong and how we’re all wrong.

The trees. You will have no other.

Watching the corners of the room the delineation between the wall and the ceiling like a separation, like broken glass, like barbed wire, like something that should stick in your skin.

But I’m out.

The bits of me that scream energy are going to take me away. They murder me rescued from the most of me that knows we should just give up, that there’s nothing around to keep going for, that anything we do falls like, well, it just falls. Something we’ll never see again.

The most of me sharpening a steel.

The bits of me out of arms reach.



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