is the squeeze of death like a baby chick getting mauled by the hands holding it it’s downy feathers cover fragile bones that can snap by the impact of a love that’s overgrown
these hands have crushed the life out of most of what they hold these fingers are bars that choke as cheap cigars. If only I could spread them out as petals so they’d be a freer, wider surface to land I’m sure this love would expand