Tuesday, October 27, 2009

On the Papasan

I fell into this chair a moment ago
And realized it smells like you:
Tears bite at my eyes, curling into a ball,
Fingernails cutting into my palms,
Face against green fabric; at war with myself.

I cannot live like this because
I hurt you.
I hurt her.
I am not real.
I cannot love.
Not now.
Not like this.

Psalm 42:11

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