Syntax for the Second Self
This body holds two of me—
the wild one,
and the one who pays for it.
I pack every want
into the shape of a pen,
but from a distance
ink looks more machine than magic.
Those who glance
only see gears,
not the slowing rhythm
or the misaligned clockwork
of a heart worn thin.
Even my hands
grow tired of reaching.
Now they lie still—
doormat deities
waiting at the edge
of your scattered attention.
Copyright © Jaymee Thomas | Year Posted 2025
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