I'm not supposed to be this rusty...
I'm not supposed to creak at only the thought of my bolts turning,
not supposed to have dust welding my bones shut.
This house used to feel like a home.
Used to let green light show through the windows.
I haven't felt the warmth of light in years.
Nothing, perhaps, to melt the crusted wax between my rib cage.
I need to unhinge,
in a matter of speaking.
Something has got to give
structure to crumbling bricks above my head.
How is it possible that my master still stands firm
when everything else around her is falling.
She stands,
in no heroic manner.
Just stubborn.
Fearful of moving
but unwilling to fight.
I close my mouth more lately,
shake my head less.
She does not respond to my disapproval,
refuses to budge when I try to shake her.
I can't seem to move her.
She's dormant in her pain.
Stoic.
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