Monday, September 6, 2010


My cold hands trace the shape of who I was before there was us.
I can't remember what I looked like
But I know I was dropped along the way,
Like a kids toy someone left on the seat of a bus
Nobody placed me in the lost and found box
And nobody called the number written on the bottom of my shoe
Because nobody cared
least of all you.

My frail hands placed you on a pedestal
Because I lost God and needed someone to worship
And couldn't bear being anyone
That wasn't crafted by someone


Isn't any longer
What it used to mean.

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