Our smiles are flashes of barbed wire. Our scrappy wills flex boneyard muscles. But still, we are not strong or charming enough to make it happen. Angry and impatient, we slap eviction notices on the domicile of Impurity. Out carbon goes, penniless. Nitrogen too, back to the gutter, back to the gin. We fill these vacancies with vanadium’s vain crew.
We shove our souls into becoming cold, capable steel. Now it will happen, we think. We’ll make it come, we repeat and repeat and our head is the soup of clashing gears. It recedes. We shout some more. We break it’s eardrums with our grating impatience.
Try, try, try. Try some more. Bait that hook, read that book, defend against what we fear most, that look in another’s eyes. That look that says: ‘I know you would kill to survive, you wretched bastard.’ Our stomachs fill with quicksand guilt, our heart struggles, sinks, closes itself in a steel casket.
Find a way to become scrap again. To become malleable. To become any sort of creature that is easily torn apart. One that doesn’t writhe when the knocking beaks to peck you into nothing kernels. Recombined in the stomach of a bird in flight, freedom comes in many forms. Flap, flap, flap; you hear it from the inside.