Taken

It stays with me now —
all the ways
I have bent myself
into an offering,
a proof.

And I want him here,
like I wanted him there —
and you’d think a decade
would learn to surpass fear.
But we invent new ways
to worry.

So again,
I am making myself
an altar —
and this bent black magic resonates
with all the waking wet green.

Go ahead.
Offer him anything he wants.

Someday you’ll learn
all the words for need,
and how one can want
without taking.

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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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