Beautiful Illness

My mind can’t quite grasp
what yours can.

It mistakens outreached
hands for shadows on
the wall,

your voice asking down
the hall if I fell or simply
broke something.

But if something’s

I don’t feel the glass making itself
smaller under my heels.

I don’t want to feel invisible like
square shards I can’t spot between
the cracks.

I don’t crawl away from
my lack of

but toward.

It ain’t my anamoly but
my norm, warm to
the touch in all

the ways I’ll never be.


5 thoughts on “Beautiful Illness

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