pinocchio (a poem)

there are parts of me that don’t work as well anymore.

when pinocchio became a boy
i wonder if he realized
what emotions would mean
and how they would
get in the way of really being.

i wonder if the sensations of being alone
will only grow
the older i get.
i wonder a lot of things

like if anyone’s noticed that death
truly is our oldest friend
because it’s all we’ve known
through life:
every beginning’s an end.

there are parts of me that don’t work so well anymore.

parts that have elongated and
separated from parts that were once whole.
somedays, i don’t even feel human.
and i wonder if pinocchio realized
and wanted to go back to being wooden.

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