Three Metal Things (or Metaphors of Impotence)

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I am a spent shell.
You can still smell the powder on me if you are able to get close enough, though I am pretty good at holding folks at bay.

I am empty, like a tin can with just enough soda in the bottom to be tempting and the pop top inside rattling around. I strain for the last drop but come away with a metallic taste in my mouth.

I am that broken bicycle beside the road, still locked to the pole, missing everything but the frame, secure but going nowhere.

I am the empty armory.
I am the thirsty tongue.
I am the silent frame.

Hear me rattle.

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