By Angela Sharman

I understand why you would say that. You see, from where you are standing,


I look nervous. My hands

are quaking, they are navigating the metro maze,

checking and rechecking my destination, never letting me sink

into the ride. Those sentient martyrs are fishing for blame, my fingers

coaxing threads out of a past that is so intricately interwoven

with you. But even they

do not wish to retrace the stitches

back to your colors, and they shake because it is the only way they know

to say that they are sorry.


You must not be good with metaphors. Let me try again.


I keep shifting the weight beneath my feet because I

am treading water, one foot

lost in itself, kicking wildly at shadows, the other

moving steadily towards the surface, and I am told that the sun

is blinding

where the mirrored water breaks.

I am cautioned that if I don’t learn how to roll

with the punches, I will meet nothing but the wicked, lazy lunges

of a world

up in smoke.


To be honest, that vacant stare is not what I was hoping for.


What if I told you that my heart

wants to match your imperfections to its beating anthem, to listen to your breath slow

when you know that I can see your face through the smog,

that I am fighting the flames of hell

to find you. Never mind your pain, this discourse on your remorse,

we are drowning in circumstance, surrounded

by cheapened romance and healing what hurts you

could be my escape.

I would lie awake for you

thinking up rules we were meant

to break.

Maybe I should have started with an introduction.


There once was a girl

who loved because she felt a spark and went scrambling

for a match- hands and knees, digging in the dirty audacity

of her youth- unafraid of flames because all she needed to know

was that she was cold.

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