Fire At Her Heels
23.. Native desert creature (we all have some kind of thorns here). Mother, art-doer, creep. I occasionally post my writing and decrepid thoughts.
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I’ve been messing with a poem for a few months now. I keep editing it again and again, and something is missing. If anyone is interested in reading it, let me know. I am open to criticism. It is how we grow. 



If you listen close:
Palms pounding the walls,
Empty echoes, tightened flesh
(with a purpose). 
                              Scratch until the nails peel back,
                              This is how I mark time. 

If I could, I’d run 
Until nothing was familiar
And I no longer knew myself.

(There are no doors in this place)

All that is left is now stirring
In the air; my skin is yellowed paper,
Every word held in is faded.
Watch me crumble—

It’s a miracle to be me

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