She Always 

Everything I Never Told You

She always wants to love
in small sane ways.
But as soon as she listens to
her heart, it lies in the open
mouth passionate kiss of
spring and rebirth.

She writes in the third person
to avoid the intimate tone.
But “I” slips in every time
I try to hide out
in metaphors, but come out
before the count of ten.

I always want to keep
at least part of myself
for me, to be reasonable
and clear headed.
To write the visible life
but remain invisible.

Instead my love is a wild
iris overgrown. My soul
meant to maintain clarity,
gets drunk on the elixir,
refuses to be tamed.
I try to mute my love
but the clasp won’t
stay closed.
My pen refuses
to still.

My love becomes large,
all encompassing, piercing,
a festering longing, a sea
of stuttering syntax.

She wants to love
in small, sane…

View original post 42 more words

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