Sometimes I grow
so tired of speaking
my emotions to you.

I open my mouth
and dust spills out
instead of feelings.

Dust, and the yellow
wings of moths,
and brittle paper,

scrawled over
with riddles that
lack solutions.

I am coughing up
the black twists
of candle wicks,

oil slicks
and crow feathers
and afterbirth

and all the ash
of every forest fire

to show you
how I feel.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
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