perhaps if i tied lead to my own feet and hurled myself off the nearest cliff, i might feel some semblance of what i feel i do to people.
down
down
down
down.
all i do to people.
crumbling ruins, chipped china, wilting flowers.
all because of me.
stand like the library of alexandria before me, and i'll leave you with the scent of smoke lingering a little too close to home just because of a simple word from me, and i'll still expect the ruins to be built back with an apology, a phoenix from the ashes.
sit me down at a five star restaurant and i'll fold my napkin and my hands neatly on my legs, do everything right, my etiquette will be the best for you but not me, and i'll shatter a plate along with my own let down expectations.
give me your best bouquet of flowers, straight from the garden of adam and eve, and i'll be so happy by the gesture i'll forget the flowers, letting them wilt, a petal in a book page that i as the author wants to shut but maybe a reader out there, ears open, wants me to continue.
but the library of alexandria birthed the bibliotecha alexandria. a broken plate can be glued together. dried flowers last longer than fresh ones.
