We lifted ourselves out of this, so many times before —
we were born to rise, like phoenixes (she says)
I say we were born to lie and lay, like bones bathed in dust —
we were born with hearts forgotten in the sun.
He says we are beings made mechanic,
he whispers sharply of "-ologies" and "-isms."
I only see the crinkles in my trembling hands,
my palms outstretched and weary.
You were always demanding that I fight —
but would you meet me in this? This tiredness?
Were we all once butterfly wings?
Or beast-arms, beating madly against the current?
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