and that worn out
spot- third rib down,
two inches to the
right- where i used
to tuck away all your
beautiful words, that
i cleaned out, scraped
out, scrubbed out,
bleached, rinsed,
repeated until there
was no more lingering
after burn of the things
that used to call it
home has finally started
to cool. i am waiting
for my wings to
remember that they
had a purpose before
you, that they do not
need to be licked or
pampered before they
are functional again.
i am a hot air balloon,
a lily pad, a new moon.
******* for ever having
made me think i could
be anything less.