How carefully I wrap it ‘round,
This raw heart.
Trapped deep in my cocoon of busy-ness.
I wind these tasks across my wounds,
These old familiar swaths of rotted silk
That cast a choking cloud of dust
When the seams inevitably split.
And how I cough, and rail at the consequences
Of my coping, unable to admit
That true balm lies in silence,
Sunlight,
The chill October wind across my cheek.
In daring to be raw.