i'm of a sweet belief,
pressing my fingertips
to the decadent remains
of this faithfulness.
there's no such thing
as true belief.
you find it
and you let it go,
and you experience it again-
and start again
fresh, broken,
alive.

they say
that we believe
in what we see.
so what does that say of me?
you see right through me.
translucent,
a ghost running
from sea to sea.

don't worry.
i'm not gone.
this, this is me-
this is who i am.
while you're worrying,
i'm laying it out before you.
i'm showing you
the sores on my wrists;
i'm holding out everything they took away
with the full,
innocent belief
that you'll recognize these treasures.

i've forgotten how hard it is
for one so used to holding everything aside
to see
me
as who i am.
not civilized
nor wild.
existing.

so don't worry.
don't mind me;
the circle's complete.
i can always parade around and pretend
for your sake
that i am that soft-hearted,
social creature.

that isn't me.

my empathy
shines
through silence,
not words and comfort.
not lightning and fire,
but the sweet belief
of the healing gale
you cannot see.
A mirror.
Break your puzzle
and just shatter
the
goddamned mirror already.

the words
are still written
on the glass,
and somebody
broke it.
i'm looking.
Trust me.
i'm looking.

your puzzle is
more intact
than my own.
so far,
the pieces?
they don't fit.

you can't cut them, boy.

we can't
mutilate ourselves
to make them fit,
so here we are-

one willing to learn
despite the fact
that the first step
is off the edge
of this floating city's
limits,
while the other hides
in fear.
it's your move,
boy;
your move.
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