I am done with longing,
says my pink swirling brain
and gnarled lungs.
My heart argues back,
hurling retorts, smashing glasses,
wheezing between its stammering.
do I stop and collect my cracked knuckles?
do I stand as still as a wide-eyed doe on the roadside?
Do I wait for the crash,
or leap back into the underbrush?
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