the first time you fell

while riding the bicycle,

you got yourself scabs

like patches of crooked stars.

you remembered the searing pain,

stretching its intensity

through your once gentle skin,

so it reached your heart

your brain, to stamp a memory.

thinking back,

it felt like the bicycle lost control,

but your hands on its handle

mark your oversight

so that personifying your ownership

is as ridiculous as it sounds.

Weak is the first one.

Is it an unnecessary insult?

or a justified label?

yet all these,

a creation of yours.

when will you change your narrative of ‘I’s ?


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