Pandora

We have the birds.
Their bodies look frightfully much like ours,
wax dripping down them,
because you’ve lit another match.

We have the cheap bars
with their wooden benches.

We have an unfriendly eye
for stories reeking of boredom and mud.

Don’t open the box,
Don’t open the box,
they said.
The ragged wings are just a trick:
it has hooks to dig into your every pore,
it keeps you talking,
so you don’t notice the sting
and you end up not recognising yourself in the mirror
and walking down the street with songs in your head,
until you come apart into small spheres,
smaller and smaller and smaller and
smaller and smaller and

 

 

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