it was white for a while

when your bones
strain against the
life you’re living
maybe it’s time to
make a parachute out of
your stress-bitten nails
stuck floating like boats
lost at the harbour of your
tea cup’s impression which
always leaves a stain on that
tablecloth embroidered by
your mother – and glide
past scabs being
constantly rekindled by
sardonic eyes

moving in circles might
not be stagnation but
it is an acceptance
which is more tiring
than giving up

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