You see, the safe sheets where I once would run have gone stale.
Where once this love was welcome
now denied,
called counterfeit.
But as my heart is full
my head has gone empty.
Afraid to own these thoughts, I still think like a well-kept-secret.
It is dark and the others are gone or are sleep.
Light feet.
Fucking forget if the truth and I meet!
Am I worthy to line the porcelain dishes’ edge?
To leave my shoes in the walk?
unannounced.
I am a delicate flower kept in the dark.
Beautiful
Bountiful
now- bruised, abused, and used.
Poetry