Monday, May 16, 2011


How can I convey to you
The way you make me feel
Without being condescending
or caustically rude?

You are a cut on the corner of my mouth
That doesn't heal until I'm silent
For days on end

You're rough sandpaper,
Rubbing repeatedly
On my dry knuckles

A tiny rock
In my shoe

A mosquito
In my bedroom

A noise
At night

You are all of these things
And so much more
So much, much more

An unfinished line

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