I feel like I’m flipping inside, like a rock in a tumbler; dutifully polishing myself to appear so smooth and beautiful, to invite the curious touch of the world around me.
But the barrel is dark and the grit is slowly whittling away at all that I am, making me smaller until I am not the stone that caught your eye any longer.
I fall into the mass of other beautifully polished people worth no sharp edges or variations in texture.
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the image is another random poem I wrote. I don’t know if I like it much yet. 