So that I don't go crazy.
So that I don't assume who she is
where she's been
what she's done,
the men she's done and left
since no one—no, not even I
—admit fully to what has been
behind closed doors.
Enter
through the front door of my house.
We invite you to wipe your feet, but
please
keep the dirt to yourself. Please,
we might break if we heard just
one
more
bad
thing.
That's why, my dear friend and enemy
watery woman I love to hate
transient as the wind inscribed
into the pages, made concrete:
see my assumptions made hollow, not
hallowed.
Stepping on old sand patterns too
like you, I’m
fucking up, mucking up my words,
sending them raining down in darts.
Please forgive me
and the inadequacy
of my words.
This woman is not my mother
did not feed me her breast,
but Lord what if she had?
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1 comment:
But she didn't. She's done you a lot of good, though. :)
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