Internal
Crises Set to Poetry
There’s
something therapeutic
About
touching the unknowable
Inside
yourself
And
giving it a name,
Inviting
it to warm its hands
By your
heart
Instead
of pretending
You
can’t hear it
Whispering
“other!” at you
As it
clouds your identity
Like a
cataract.
No –
bleed it like ink
Onto a
page made
To
receive your stranger.
Let it
be more than a silhouette;
Transpose
it to words
You can
fold into origami sparrows
And
give them breath
On
which to fly.
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