Monday, March 1, 2021

I can't help but misspeak my history,
miss uncomfortable subtexts
and gloss over little mysteries.

The sheen is a shield 
that keeps my soft parts unprodded,
my daily trauma triggers unplucked.

Because once thrummed,
these strings can echo unchecked,
a minor wire sizzling with too much heat.

So stand before my upturned feet
to witness what their roughness reveals
about the smooth myths my two lips repeat.

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love notes
a ritual to start the work week