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Maybe if we stop touching it, it won’t break.
Maybe, if, in the seconds before our eyes close we do not open them
- out of fear or compulsion -
Maybe it will not be as dark as we think.
Maybe I have conned you into believing I want to let go.
I am ruined.
Because I cannot stop.
But I cannot continue.
And so I sit immobile in my numbness, wrestling with the clogging in my chest that I must get tests for soon,
For it has been hurting so.
But the doctor, what to do when he checks and says
Is that my insides are not what they should be?
That I have a snow-globe of a heart.
Cold to the touch.
A little wonderland
That, when you shake it
Flip it on its head and back around;
In that confusion
And when it gets a whisper of a moment
Shows you —
That all the jolting of the outside world
Only helps display its beauty.
I am afraid to be still.
I will be covered, then, in time
And you will forget me.
What then of these words?
Where will they live?