small room

I didn’t ask,

I played with a string, calling it a wire, saying I would stop up my mouth with it,

(weaving blistering ribbons)

and never taste from the waters again.

my eyes have so many layers;

so many I would shed,

boxed and mounted like dead creatures

they were,

surely,

alive.

a single blow and the cavern is ignited;

and I, longing for nothing but shade;

the source of the light?

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