My feet are swollen when I wake up,
place souls on the ground and the blood rush is enough
to keep me going.
Before I choose to quit walking in the weather all together
I'll walk backwards.
Bare hands against deep purple mittens,
like the story book in my room.
If anyone ever visits my house again
I must love them or I will not let them in.
How can I love them, if I do not let them in
and read childrens' books to them?