poetry

clutch

my hands are empty;
i keep them tightly balled
into fists for illusion’s sake,
to make the rest of the world
(and myself) think
there’s something held within
that tight little grasp,
but there’s no fooling You.
sometimes i feel that
sharp little pain in my chest
and bleat oh God, is this
what it feels like to die?
only You know i don’t mean
that kind of dying. you would
think i should’ve learned by now
but i still panic every time. the
world is loud and fear wails
like a siren through my mind;
that still little voice in my soul
gets outshouted sometimes,
i am ashamed to say. break
my fingers (and my heart)
if You have to.

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