Feather-Like

There is a piece of me
all turned up
all glitter against a bare-white sky
not larger than life, no
but
hanging on a string
up-down, and up-down, uncertain
of which order to follow
with
breaths too raw, too visceral
and too loud
for the hush.

There is a piece of me
waiting
or watching, for
a stark, or elaborate sign
with
painted pictures and jagged edges, and
mirrors too dark to see through
telling me to turn away
but
how volatile is the mind,
that I don’t think I’d change
at all.

Posted by

Reader | Romance Author | Feminist | Ally

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