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I am the pigment of paint in your aerosol can.
I am the tiny particle that tries to cling to your hands, if only the tip of your finger,
as you press down on the spray cap. I want to fill your lungs. I want you to breathe
me in. But you wear a protective mask to keep out
my toxin-laced love, my love-laced toxin. Your gentle hand, your creative mind, ejects
me onto the surface of a mundane space to bring beauty and the message you must tell...
"Tell us," cries the world. And then I reluctantly float and land. Against my will, but willing
to take my place next to the others because you will me so.
I will be the tree exploding through the earth like a bomb. I will be the flowers held tightly
in the hands of the Reaper. I will be the dancer, lost in the music, her rhythm matched
by the lights. She is all the rave. If you stand close enough you can see me constantly
reaching out to you. I am that metallic glimmer in the sunlight—that flammable flake—hoping
to catch your eye.