The hand that reaches over, even when there is no sound.
You squeeze until redness appears.
Words float through the air and grow stale.
The everyday, every day.
the bags; the piles; the forgotten interests.
A purple rock tells you it will bring you peace.
you form a fist. Its points dig into your palm.
You sit up. Dizzy. Head-spun.
The redness forms no bruise.
no one will know.
you breathe.
“Try to do better,” you say.
And try.
©copyright Allison Smidt 2021
No comments:
Post a Comment