They found my voice in faded ink
on scraps of paper floating from
the fallen sky. And they said
to themselves: This is how she feels.
So they rushed to my side.
I will never forgive them.
Those words were torn up
in another lifetime; thrown.
And now they are stuffed back
into my shocked mouth so that
when I spit them out it feels as if
I am saying them still.
What does it matter why? That
tears once smudged my eyes
is all that strikes them. That
I was struck too, and flattened
by the blow until I turned over
in the breeze, they do not care.
But I did and they are guilty
with excitement to see the older,
other side to me that is me no longer.
They do not care that those words
unearthed a face that was dead
and was buried. A face that I killed.
So they rushed to my side.
And with them they brought
a cadaver that rose to greet me,
a carcass that said: See, I am not dead.
I wonder how I will sleep tonight,
with two faces on my pillow
and one voice between them
as they throw more words
into the black winds of the night.
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