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.