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Brittle GirlThey fashioned her from their brittle bones,
whittled away at the wilted, weakened hearts,
The ones that had erratic beatings.
They put her together just to take her apart.
She danced across their puppet strings,
followed their each and every rule.
Now she's realized she was never important,
all this time she was such a fool.
A fool to think she was wanted,
and a fool to believe that she mattered.
Looking back it's time she noticed
everything at home was shattered.
So now she's strengthening those brittle bones,
and trying to feed that weakened heart.
She's making every preparation
so that no one can ever take her apart.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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