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Feb 2016
I dug up the last of them
from the backyard
and plucked each
from a rusty coffee can.
Creased and yellowed,
I smoothed them out,
tracing their folds
with my dirt-caked fingernails.

These are all of my secrets I tell you.
Synonymous with mistakes you tell me.

In that moment, something leaden,
like guilt,
threads through my pursed lips,
but I don’t let it pull tight.
I carefully rip each stitch, instead,
and remember why they were buried.
With my seamless smile,
I grin widely, without doubt,
knowing it was okay
to finally let them breathe.
Β© Bitsy Sanders, February 2016
b for short
Written by
b for short  Braavos
(Braavos)   
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