Pulling at my hair never solved a problem.
Even I missed the sadness in my eyes.
A photograph challenges the lies we tell ourselves.
A photograph never solved the problems written on my skin.
Today is the first day I’ve seen my age imprinted on my knuckles.
Look at your knuckles. Look at all the jagged, crossed lines.
If only I could hold the sentence in my hand.
Bend it into a heart, tie it like a bow.
Who would I send it to? Would they want it?
A falling eyelash…
A butterfly and sometimes a worm.
When was the last time you kissed a word?
When was the last time a violet brushed upon your skin?
When was the first?
Can you argue with a touch?
How do you remember a hug?
