we are the broken people we
feared we would split into,
circling dustpans and junk yards
too small to hold the pieces of
our hearts.
the old trope of wishing wholeness
but being a bag of bird bones, only
hollow thrush garbles and air where
marrow once was.
feared we would split into,
circling dustpans and junk yards
too small to hold the pieces of
our hearts.
the old trope of wishing wholeness
but being a bag of bird bones, only
hollow thrush garbles and air where
marrow once was.
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