even these pieces of me
scattered on the ground like
glass shards, the whiskey bottle
aversely reflecting the moving
hours of the sun. a warm tint
of creamed yellow and bronze
tastes of sharp drunkenness but
not intoxicated by the heavy proof.
I pick them up, every one of them
jagged stiff flower petals of sorts.
if they're going to wither and die
it might as well be in the palm of
my hand
memories of broken selves,
shriveling
(Image from pxhere.com)
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