And it always was
This way,
My clear-eyed girl.
A reason remembered
For clouding the vision:
All of these confessions,
Thrown away like
Torn paper.
And you,
Sweet friend,
Grew to need,
Their unfolding.

Pocket them now.
Take good care
To conceal them,
They will be —
As they always are —
A torment in the night,
A telling,
And something to hold,
When the wave overwhelming

Their lonely words —
The creeping branches,
Encircled the sleeper.
And the weight of
All that wood
Concealed from view
The clouded brow.

A need for retreat
To the darkened room
And time to remove
The splintering thought —
The thorn.

How to cut your way
Back out of it
Became the new distraction.
Or would it be
To wrap that blanket
Around your bones,
And listen to
The receding echo
Of all that sadness

What you need,
She said,
Is to learn this:
And to close the door

There will never be a way
To be,
Without this wounding

Shut it out,
Do not let them in,
These careless voices,
She said.

But still
You sank.

Forgive them, love.
Forgive them, at last.
How could they know
That the roses they bring you
Cause so much


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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