you stab a fork in my heart
and eat it like a ravenous man would
after starving for a week, or eating his last meal.
you salt it for taste and spite,
to hurt me more.
the nerves are still attached
and i can still feel.
--
i attempt to savor the
umami set before me.
a mold-able two-by-four,
i errupt, claiming it mine for just one night
and fall, regrettably responsible for returning it,
upset that i must give it back to the real world.
but so free spirited is the wooden plank
he is a butterfly, transformed, spreading its wings.
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