The Fight 

I stare at my palms and at my broken skin. When did this happen? I didn’t see most of it. I didn’t feel any of it. I was so desensitized; I was breathing in rust and breathing out gold. I broke myself while fixing this. The process pauses as I suddenly watch the Reds Browns and greens scale off my knees and my elbows. I find that my hair has turned to rope, my eyes are made of glass. The world is loud, it is immense and psychotic. I am still and I am loveless. My limbs have rusted and nails are black. Somehow I stopped, my soul is awake and it is thunder; it is lightning and it is fearless beyond my fragile body. Shrieks turn to screams, and screams become prayers for redemption. The psychotic world grows even more hysterical but I am awake, and I am becoming. 

I spit out words and bones, I press my palms over my face and I smash the glass. I give my soul eyes, and suddenly I recognize myself. 

One more battle done with this world at war; I am not broken, I am not heavy. I am made of gold and rust; I have a stream of rain running through me. My soul is thunder and I am not not blind. I see you. Beyond anything, and after it all ends; I still see you. 

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