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The question of how to communicate
Has always plagued me.

I once knew, when I was little, before
People called me bossy.

But I slowly unlearned, thinking that
Timidity was preferable.

It was more acceptable to society
For my words to fumble.

But why is that? Why are words so
Feared when truthful?

Can we not simply speak our minds,
Refusing to sugarcoat?

I have always thought the sugary rim
Of a glass too bitter.

It leaves a sour taste in my mouth,
Resembling a sweet lie.

How do we learn to communicate
Properly, when forever
Serving frosting off sharp knives?
There were words in the lay

Of the wooden slats, whispers
From the rusted pennies, songs
In the crystalline spread of light
On the ceiling—
I saw words everywhere.
In everything.
But when I looked at your mouth,
Moving in shapes I’m sure I know,
I did not percieve anything.
You never did say

Those words
Your eyes implied.
I heard them
In my head, all lies.
I wish I could say
That I never envisioned
My soft hands surrounded,
Encapsulated, by yours—
The rough skin like a shield
Against the world.

But that simply

Wouldn't

be true.
The last time we spoke,
I was bundled in the coat
Of my doubts, my feet cold
As they hung off the edge
Of my bed.

I complained
About the lack of warmth,
But I shook off the blanket
You tried to drape over my
Shoulders.

I stood up,
Bare feet on frozen wood, not
Knowing where I was going,

Only that I needed to be
Away from you.

My thoughts
Led me to the mesh door,
Out into the snow.

But my
Paranoid eyes only saw
White, stretching for miles,
Wishing you would appear
Among the blank hills.

That was when I realised
I only wanted to be away
From  m y s e l f.

The numbness
Of the cold was supposed
To distance my body from
My hatred of myself—

But now my limbs
Are turning blue and purple,
Freezing to the spot, and the
Redness inside only
G r o w s.

I am
Unable to walk away from
It, hide in constant activity
Like I always have.

And I don’t
Blame you for finally giving
Up on trying to find me.
It was not serendipitious—
They were only sounds
Wailed from the opening
Of an old, untuned guitar--
But her eyes still pinched
Shut, hearing the screams
Of a voice no longer here.
Lord, sift your comb
Through my thoughts;
Untangle them like
Unruly locks of hair.
Trace gentle circles
Along my back; sooth
All the worries that are
Groundless in Your love.
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