She asks me why I keep my poetry hidden
tucked away in the farthest corners
of my heart and I don’t know what to say.
How do I explain that out loud my words
come out tangled and hesitant and wrongwrongwrong
but in writing they run into the page like rivers
flowing from my soul?
How do I tell her I can’t be
expected to share the pieces of my soul
that I don’t even trust myself to handle
with the whole world?
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