You can grab where our wings would be,
Before mistakes broke them
Dirty,
Into mud.

We went into paved streets knocking into
Others falsely holding their thoughts
Like candles burning at metal cables,
Unwinding leaving answers floating.

We went into times marked by stresses and nervous eyes
Surveying death in each coincidence.

You ask us to write about something happy,
So we prick our fingers and write with blood
To show that not much happens without it.

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