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Knuckling TimeClock tattooed--
on my wrist,
big and little hands
I tap them
with a knuckle,
willing them to move.
imitates the way
you and I
left the wounds
to stitch themselves back together
and I understand the irony
of time that doesn't move
when I think about you
Scar TissueIf I could snap my fingers
and make the hurt I've caused you fade--
a scar you don't think twice about--
but I don't know how to do that.
Stitching SeamsI've been stitching
pieces of myself together for years,
trying to make me whole.
The trouble is,
I don't remember how to sew
my hands shake so badly
I lose bits of myself
a breadcrumb trail
to the hidden me.
If you find a piece,
Put it in your pocket.
Forget about it.
when you finally remember
the misshapen object
you picked up,
I'll be ready
to face myself as a whole.
I'm too afraid
of the unknown spaces--
the things I hide
from even myself--
to tie my stitches off.
Sun JaundiceThe sun bleeds
and the moths
guide you home.
falls, and I blossom,
a temple of skulls.
SolaceShe never slept well in the dark,
not without the children of the sun and moon
to guide her weary lids home.
Guided by the aftermath, she was always two steps behind.
What did the world look like to the girl who had been through it all?
Braved the heaviest of storms,
yet skipping over cracks in the pavement.
They said her eyes were the wisps of clouds before the storm.
To him they were reflections of pages overlooked.
She said it was like she lived the life of someone she had never met.
Laid out to dry, yesterdays news.
He knew her as the girl who was built to never collapse.
He wished he was too.
He loved her more than words could say, and yet her pain was such,
that at times, he feared she wouldn’t make it.
But on nights like these, even when it threatened to consume her,
he became convinced that somehow she would.
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