sensitivity is not armor, some say.
yet it is how i keep myself warm,
as alive as a river rushing through thick forest
and patches of soft-bellied mushrooms.
my feet still bleed when stumbling over tree roots
jutting up from the ground
like bony elbows.
but through feeling, i am protecting myself
from numbness, cold gaspings of thin, threadbare air.
when i journey through your dead eyes
i find frozen memories and cracked vulnerability
drifting like melting icebergs
in those waters.
love,
mari
YOU ARE READING
for the tarnished hearts
Poetrypoetry for the hearts tarnished by love or the sudden death of it. for the hearts that find a soft lullaby in the pages when raw hope is not enough to put the worries to sleep. for the hearts that bleed ink to paint the chalky roses of life red with...
