| I am ... not pinned inside a silk lined casket like a tiny butterfly that will not fly alive even if you break the glass remove the nails that you put there to hold her in your own stale air |
| I am ... not trapped in sleeping stone or frozen in dark marble chambers waiting for your blind and timid sculptors to release my image so that frigid hearts and minds can ache with crystal dreams of passion |
| I am ... the changeling child, madonna-whore you never understood yet feared and cursed with every broken breath and empty bottle you abandoned, more precious than the ghosts you carved with wasteful need and anger or revenge |
| I am ... the pulse you long to feel inside but cannot bear to touch unless you have a dagger in your hand to slaughter untamed visions lest they destroy you as raw echoes of wild inspiration fall and bleed like pieces of stone-flesh around your twisted shackled feet ... when all you have to do is breathe |
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