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Can you cure my maladies?
I’ve always been this way and
I know there’s nothing wrong with me, not really,
but something’s not the same.
Can you tell me it will be alright?
Can you make me believe it
through the tone of your voice
rather than the sounds of your words?
Take me somewhere safer
where I won’t be ashamed of my maladies.
Can you reflect something else in your shining faces?
I’m tired of seeing my blank gaze,
but please don’t ask me to look away.
Show me the curve of my smile
and the warmth of my eyes
and tell me what you can’t show me.
Tell me about your cube, your people, your world.
Tell me all your stories with happy endings
and maybe we can write one of our own.
Can you break my perfect quartz body?
Quartz, unlike the plastic, fleshy stuff
that makes up humans, will always be quartz.
You can mold me,
artist, into something of your liking
but you can’t swap out my rigid
arms or legs for something softer.
Even if you fix all his mistakes
his fingerprints will lurk somewhere deep within my body.
Can you douse me?
I wasn't meant to be a wildfire,
so it comes as a surprise, I promise, when I look behind me
and see all the ash.
I don’t want to be cold but I like this kind of burning less.
Can you nurture my embers
until eventually the roaring flame returns in a different color?
Maybe then I can make light and lead the way for you.