/ / / THIS IS NOT WHO I AM / / /
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I am in no way an echo falling down the stairs, and I have never been a frozen map. I am neither the silos nor the underground trains full of fingers and nerves.
I will never be caught in the gaze of wolf eyes. I drain like salt through the empty spaces of grasping talons.
It is impossible for me to be a siren in the fog. My thoughts cannot be distinguished from a spectral hum on the wind. My tongues have yet to be worms, and there is no record of them serving as whips.
I would like to dispel the rumors that I have wooden feet, and a hollow thigh containing a solid thigh. However, I neither confirm nor deny that I am a vast pile of driftwood concealing a vibrating copper bowl.
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/ / / THIS IS NOT WHAT I DO / / /
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I am not waiting just beneath the surface of all waters, my face breathing through a straw. I do not lie awake at night, my bones aflame with roaring.
I do not delegate postures, or pretend without the heart. I never fashion signs pointing to the Secret Dish. There may have been a time when I limped toward the crystalline mainframe, my limbs full of poison. But that was an older time. With different moons.
I have no plans to become sand becoming bricks becoming sand. My hands will not jut through rocks, nor will they matter deeply.
I have been given the breath of a warmer beast. I give it to the seer. I double-magnify.
I move slowly, with wrath and clarity.
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