we are carved from dying books and sparrow swings so easy and so wide just like them, unfolds, and falls apart. bad braille whispers in our veins that you have tried to read with hands or lips or skin, but never mind. the language in us bleeds too scratched, our pages charcoal, gone—
we are young, we’ve heard. but we are carved from dying books.
tagged as: portraits of. sparrow. prose.