I'm your sugar-coated candy glass
huddled small
so you won't taste bitter insides
when you bite
crushing me with your teeth
as I reach for your whole
tearing limbs from sockets
just to brush fingertips
against skin
as if by accident.
You're so casual about me
and my entrails spilling
even as I try to stuff them back inside
someone else's grin stitched to my face.
Words leak from a frozen tongue
crystalline and intricate
and puddles of water in the end.
Not tears (though you'd like that)
more like whispers in a box warped with age.
My arms are not my own.
In the end
they extend to be buffeted by winds and birds and time
and left alone.

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