The scale, my soul
10 years, same ache in my belly. I look at the camera and cry, toes like a pigeon, preoccupied in orbit, some things aren't transactional.
You'll take take take, but somehow I am still not hollow. You feast on my weakness and prey on my strength.
When I finally find my ground, you build, break, build, become the landowner and tell me to evacuate or stay and pay rent. Some things aren't transactional.
I will end up poor in sick soil and you will quarrel with the indecision between famine and feast.
10 years, same stem, I wilt, I bloom, and I wilt again. But hold no pity, no sympathy for these bones. I am a public display of affection, sharing love with a world that can never do the same the way I need it.
Out of the sheets and into my heartstrings, whispering sweet nothings in my ear when the scale is too heavy and I am too light. But some things aren't transactional.
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