I seem to be unlucky with minor things in life. My left
pinky finger, my knee. The tie
that snapped
spilling my bag and breaking everything
you gave me.
Which I had looked forward
to treasuring. Guitar strings, and
heartstrings. It is not enough
they be pulled for some reason.
They must be pulled out
by the roots. A minor
thing, in key A minor.
New ones will grow. And
spin out into the world like
spidersilk, catching and pulling
taut again, as if no prior lessons taught
could take. It must all begin anew,
a fresh start for everything ruined. Minor
wounds healed, minor injuries accumulating
like painted broken body parts
in a glass menagerie
look
a bird
how did that get in here
feathers everywhere
it's broken everything
again
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