she is subservient
to the voices,
but not
their effort
to quell a voracious
taste for the
truth
panic with its filthy fingers
climbs into
her throat
the stale
insides of her cage
coerce a plunge,
and
she constructs
the flight
pain is a
living thing
it coddles terror
in its blanket
without a heart,
or wings
© 9.30.13 heather brager
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