I’ve never been able to keep a diary

But I have notebooks full of poetry only known by my eyes and thee fingers that composed them

I didn’t learn to break on paper in English classes

My friends brought me to learn the art of breathing my story into candy to their hungry ears

They knew this would glue shards of me back together because I had forgotten where I left my smile behind

I was stripped of all that was mine and they gave me the art of reclaiming in increments with every notebook, every poem, every word

Soon enough they’d fall away with the leaves and all I had left of them was stitched into metaphors in poems no one would read but me


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