Loves
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Woodland Grove
And your dark, knotted hair falls,
trailing along and settling
in the crevice of collarbone,
ravine of spine,
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Counting to 17
When I turned 17, it was synonymous with the beginning of the end.
It felt like landing in the jaws of a
hungry,
hungry wolf
that would maul me to pieces.
-
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The Bottom of a Wishing Well
A penny from a young girl with pigtails and a toothy grin, a dime from a poet in a baseball cap, and a quarter from an elderly lady on her morning stroll.
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Rising
We were rising.
With every thread tied together, by those who wanted to catch hold —
Those with knotted breath and clasped handsWeaving together a dream, cast out into a sea of stars —
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Don't Be Afraid
Child, your future is best left unspoiled, so I may be too vague, or not vague enough. Don’t be afraid of the contents within this letter . . .