scattered paper
and half
finished sentences
lie
across the floor
millions without me
i feel it in you
puppets
on a string
diviner, creator, maker
we float
across empty rooms
we made
nothing arms flailing,
alive with the bustling
noise
and paper cannot hear but
nevertheless
i scream my little
papier mache heart out,
angry at those fingers
which stretch my flimsy limbs
into ways
against
my backward motion
and dream...
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