Astray

I refuse
to cry over this.
I am not going to
not.
How could one bear
the exposure?
The scrutiny?
I keep it still,
steady and locked.

A May snow melts
half seconds
above the ground —
insubstantial omens.
And I am grown
so cold and hard-hearted.

Still trying
to place them
in space and time —
to the minute
of the actions,
as though this definition
could further define
my own reactions —

how did I grow
so far and foreign?

There is something
we all want.
But the taking
is hard.
So we give it,
and hope that will suffice.

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About Emily

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

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