Inflections

,

It was the sound of rushing,
pushing bodies onto the ground,
hot, thinly-constructed instruments found
in the hands of ventriloquists

and hands,

hands touching my body like Benny Hinn,
many men wanting to claim success,
feeding me power for a second, filling up my chest
with motivation,
leaving behind a holy mess
claiming they were less
than your average philanthropist
with thick fingers and a crumpled up list
of people to fix,
leaving behind well-dressed skin and bones,
homes for the wasted lips

and hearts,

hearts in this world with nowhere to bleed,
feeding on themselves,
forgotten and placed up high on shelves,
their eyes and cartilage thrown
into the breath of a mother,
another broken fixture
trying to understand why the bigger picture
isn’t so clear,
swallowing her children whole to save them
from their erections
because she doesn’t believe
in inflections.

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