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Dustpan
How outside pressures could mutate
The power of perception sickens me,
Twists my stomach into knots that choke me as tight as the air that I breathe
And I do, I do breathe it in gasps
As if my surroundings could dilute oxygen
the sound of enemy voices slams the world together
Shut, within a suitcase
Gone fathers shouldn’t matter
Wavering connections, thinner than spider silk
About as strong as foam
Still exert pressure on my throat
Maybe there is something intangible
The magic realists were right
Because I can’t seem to run away from all that defines me, even though none of it does
The people might say they love me, but still, a reverberating buzz
Builds up inside my chest every time I look at myself and fight for reassurance
I don’t know why I need this I don’t know why I can’t just be different than who I am
Dog barks echo, beating me down
Take up your chisel and plow my bones into dust
Until shards dance circles across the mahogany floor
There was supposed to be an escape, a dustpan somewhere
The line between there, and in here, wavers under this pressure
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