When my dark figure shouts out to me,

I alone debate only for a second.

To myself I discuss the broken areas and vow to make them whole,

but I say, I want to see what it’s made of.

I want to look at it from floor to eye, cold.

I want to feel my heart grow fat from the beauty,

since I’ve already felt the hurt it took to tamper down

my quiet unusual.

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About ingridfalconi

I'm a married mother of three and a published author.
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