She carries her heart like paper
Creased in folds unseen
and unread in paragraphs unwritten
Her poem is scattered and misunderstood
Words crawl back into words
Desire pierces through the veils of her desires
Tasting what is real seems a pointless walk
Through what is and what is not
Her truths are scribbled in the margins
At night she
Tucks them into the cracks of her soul

She carries her heart like paper
All the while knowing that
It could burst into flames at any given moment
Any given kiss, any given touch,
any given word or any given glance
She only pretends that life is not so fragile
But she knows that the fragility is what binds us all together
It is written there somewhere in the preamble
That someone read aloud before she was born
It is the subtext in all her poems



She carries her heart like paper
As she breathes heavy in white mist mornings
The most alive as she can be
It is silent as she walks through herself
Peering through her heart
She bleeds her water in the rain
It washes through the fabric
Of her beginning
Leaving her soul fresh and unwritten
Individuated from any god she could create
She blends into the fog