Out Last

Statistically speaking, we are outnumbered.
We are inconsistent. We are flailing
in front of traffic. Though we are few,
we are essentially hard to avoid, pecking
our way through crowds and cobwebs. I

repeat myself when someone talks over
me. I repeat myself when someone,
anyone, talks over me. My cells are
outnumbered by your cells. Voices scab
over other voices, other stories. Make way

for fresh wounds, statistically outnumbered
by old wounds, statistically outnumbered
by invisible wounds. I know that the sum

of these parts reflect the whole. I scribble
the truth, privately, because I'm outnumbered.
I am inconsistent. We ignore the flashing lights,
stare blankly ahead, still flailing. We forget how come.