Whisper like you mean it, or
consider the alternative. Quiet.
Wrought with rot I stay here, still,
beneath the sky’s blanket, tucked in.
I fear shelter.
But don’t be so damn quick to damn me, dammit.
I know my subtlety wins me no prizes.
My trophy case is empty.
My lonely place befriends me.
I’m a simple thorn waiting to be stuck (as if I wasn't already).
As if I’ll never be steady.
It’s my instinct that’s led me, and for better or worse, I breathe still.
For never or first, I convene still.
It's just me and my thoughts, meeting up
like old friends over a cup of coffee.
We act as though years haven't passed us by, like an exit two lanes away.
We muddle through the awkward reality that old stains may never leave, but they do fade.