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Taut

Something’s wrong.
I’m sore from all the plucking
and the tugging at my core,
I’m stretched and taut and split and caught,
and finally I’m seen;
tearing at the stitches,
my true color itches for the switches
that relax the strings that tie me,
the cables laid inside me,
they twist and try to hide me
in a monochrome design.

I’m drawn and live in line.
My face toward the wall until you will that I align,
so turn my cheek and have me speak the way that you define.

But I’m tired of all my wires,
your desires, and this game,
and you best believe I’ll draw upon
this pain to fuel my flame.

I dare you to approach me.
My poise is wearing thin.
This trap longs to relieve you of
the color in your skin.

lydia-hunt-align

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