Independence

Labels are just other words, turning ourselves from verbs into nouns
Heedless we scratch boundaries in our dirt
This is me, this one not me, this one mine but you, you are over there and left haunted
You cannot be part of who I am in your raw edged honesty, dripping blood on my clean carpet
Your bones showing the breaking points in our well fleshed lives
You cannot be admitted into being, much less our attempt at polite society
If you are quiet I will feed you scraps, and use the grotesquerie of your promise
As a mirror guilding my dreams
If I am not yet you, perhaps I can still scratch at the backdoor of hope
Perhaps I need not be afraid of this deep and hungry wanting

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