My shoulder hurts.
I carry too much:
what was, what wasn’t,
the things that get in the way.
Which old hurt should I cry about?
Which new love should I toss and turn for?
Where should I store the people who fall away?
My mind spins.
I think too much:
where I was, where I could be,
everything that’s not today.
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Under the bones of the sky she splinters into inadequate words
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