Crinkles (callouses)

I stopped being

Maybe it was the callous palms of
their hands guiding me into homogenous citadels,
expecting me to follow;

I did not follow suite. I wanted more than callouses.

the crinkles in the sand-baked streets, the cement dividing under the pressure of prose and endless rows of tired-eyed primates. I was
curious with the ravines they unearthed with the acidity of their bleeding feet, but I made sure to waddle only through the shallow ends of their subsequent trenches. My humanity was

to be one with the herd, to seek comfort in cold-cut steel empires, to stand in rows and rows of tired-eyed primates for the off-chance that I’ll never be alone.

But I’m not

I watch them dig ravines with their bleeding feet; I wonder.


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