Pieces

I tear myself apart.

A million tiny pieces

surging, burning,

adrift in the blackest

Erythraean sea.

I snag them, snare them,

lay them in rows.

Fingers sift,

contain, dissect,

detain,

others taste them,

devour them,

butcher, badger,

they don’t understand.

They swish and spit them out,

pedants.

Poke, prod, search for patterns,

arrange the pieces of me

into designs no one else can see,

or toss them into a heap—

a mountain—

a volcano—

waiting to explode.

A'a

A’a

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