i don't break words,
i shatter them
and meld from the shards,
scrape the shrapnel out of my scars
and pile the dented vowels
into a heap of things that could be whole, but
aren't.
the consonants get left behind,
like younger siblings of famous folks
smug on the rug, smiling nastily
at the vowels trapped in their tower of fragments
they don't try to fuse, anymore
tired of dismemberment, and
the vowels' persistent inability
to commingle
they no longer walk in stride.
confabulation
disintegrating into the silence
most define their lives by, the
taciturnity that turns
and bites at those who try
to demolish it.
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