Each hurt, a stone; each imperfection,
mortar for the walls. They rise up
like Babel, to the sky, surrounding
my heart like barbed wire fences.
Each hurt, a stone; each imperfection,
mortar for the walls. They rise up
like Babel, to the sky, surrounding
my heart like barbed wire fences.
Sometimes it comes in burnt-bottom pans
and frayed-end quilts. Sometimes it’s scuffed guitars
played by callous-tipped hands. Continue reading “LOVE WITHOUT THE -LY”
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