Alex Bransky

The machine never stops.
It chews me up
But never spits me out
No matter how much I ask.

If I could go back
I wouldn’t change it all.
I would hardly change a thing.
I would tell you I loved you
The day you died.
That’s all.

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Photo by 愚木混株 cdd20 on Unsplash

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Looking in the mirror
I see my self
But not myself

I barely notice the changes
The gray hairs
The wrinkles
The scars

The impatience
The yelling
The lack of empathy
The inability to stand up for what’s right

Did I ever really know me?
Was I always so weak?
Did I hide in a shell
And pretend I was meek?
Does the butterfly remember
Who the caterpillar was?
Does the child in me know
What the world does?

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Five minutes after
It was already too late
But that’s when I knew

The turn of the screw
The whistle of the tea kettle
Then rigid silence

Anger, punishment
Screaming, literal torture
A fist in the wall

Nothing I could do
But venture out on my own
And never come back

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Lemon-yellow chaos
Driving through the snow
Aquamarine and elemental
Several octaves below

A crack, a crash
A terrorizing splash
A hamstring hurl
And sudden window smash

Unclick, be quick
Grab the sidekick
Push her out first
Then do a dolphin kick

The wind is calm
The sun is bright
Pray another car
Comes by before the night

Layers of brisk and bleak
Biting the limbs at their peak
The bronchial sting, the halo of frost
Shiny condensate mystique

Shiver
Fight
Hug
No rest for the weak

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