She is a beast of wind and words,

only as powerful as we allow her to become.

She waggles her pretty toe in the reflecting pool

And we fish come to eagerly nip.

We feed her with our ardors,

Our passions,

Gather round her like a golden idol

and offer meat and milk as tribute.

She collects us like fireflies

On midsummer nights.

We flash and sparkle

and give her her fill.

By morning we are dim and neglected,

ghosts of what we once were.

There are new fireflies to collect.

I speak this as paradox;

Words make her strong,

And I must warn you

not to feed the animals,

But in speaking,

I make her stronger still.

She’s so vain

(I bet she thinks this song is about her).

Kill her with silence and ice,

Turned backs and indifference.

Answer not her pleas for aid,

and let the beast die.

We want our words back,

as we deserve our confidences

and the chance to become

our own monsters.


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