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A poem on trying to open up.
  i want to talk about my heart but i don’t know how, so instead i’ll talk aboutmy fingers, trembling towards a brightness they can’t grasp.the wrong words fall thick and fast from my fingertips as they stretch towardsthe right ones, the outstretched palm, the white flower, before curling in on itself one more time. when the fingers fail the nails are painted lemon yellow and that is a small comfort.i want to talk about my heart but i don’t know how, so have this:my shoulders are jagged edges pointing forward and everyone cuts their palms on the corners,but at night i touch the blades and imagine i have wings.i want to talk about my heart but sometimes i think it’s too strange and slippery,so here are my hands, clenched into fists, not yet ready to let the minnow go.i want to talk about my heart but it’s clasped too tight inside my chest so here’s a memory:the afternoon sky glinting off your hair, the rushing water, the glancing touch,the unbearable silence that pressed against my skin. watching from the inside and not knowing how to get out, wishing i did.i want to talk about my heart but instead i’m a cheek pressed to cold tiles at 2 am.if i could unravel the words i would say “help”, but i haven’t yet gotten my tonguearound the shape of them.i want to talk about my heart so here are eight words: unlace, and the sun will kiss your cheek.
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