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Broken Things

written by: Alexa Cleasby

@Lexicon_Fuse

 

I like them broken and strange.
I like them knotted and tarnished.
I pick up a new one between thumb and forefinger.
Rounded through time and smooth to the touch.
But it doesn't feel quite right. It doesn't leave a mark on my skin. Put it back with the others and it's instantly lost in the swell.

And I forgot to put on my seatbelt that day.

I am trouble with stray ideas.
I am a crowd with distractions.
I am a chorus of arguing voices.
Small things are swept aside like dust out the door.

And whole stretches of road passed by without memory.

I think the same thoughts, day after day.
I chase them down holes and herd them in gnarled twisting circles. But I never quite catch up and I never quite soften.

And I drove too fast on those lonely old roads. And I thought I was invincible in my red metal cage.

I am a fox and the hounds are behind me.
I am me and then not me, slipping in the in-between, and out the other side.
I can see the person I want to be
I'll run faster, write clearer, talk smoother. I'll learn how to fly.

And I did fly that day. Like a ballerina I flew through blood splattered glass.
The window exploded in sharp confetti sparks. A thousand tiny rainbows danced across the tarmac.

And there were flashes of lights.
And there were crying sirens.
And there were stretched out voices like hands through the dark.

I am sheared snapped plastic with metal crunching teeth. I wanted your edges and I wanted you to bite. But when I left, you crumbled.

And slowly I become like them. Just another broken thing. But if someone remembers me, I don't care if the rest forget.

Alexa Cleasby

Alexa Cleasby

Writer of short stories, strange tales, poetry and jumbled up words.
Squeezing my first love into every corner of life.
Alexa Cleasby

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