Thursday, April 10, 2014


They say this
Isn't me,
That I'm not this girl
Who tears herself down in the middle of the night
To tears;
But I guess
You've picked open scabs
That I thought had healed,
Leaving behind a raw lump
Of sinking deja vu,
And everything has been reduced
To sand slipping between my fingers
So when I grasp at it
More grains slip past
While I can only watch,
Carefully built sandcastles
Breaking apart in tempering winds
And I
Am just helpless.

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