May 9
So brittle
That a single word (or seven)
Could pour salt on my opened palms
And break
My short sense of happiness
That a single word (or seven)
Could pour salt on my opened palms
And break
My short sense of happiness
Another late night write.
I wanted to get angry. I still do. But I got a poem that I'm happy with (the other one)
I wanted to get angry. I still do. But I got a poem that I'm happy with (the other one)
