Poetry by Becky
I watch his musclesflex with each turnof the screwdriver.He's fixing the lockon the window by the fire escape,broken since I moved in.My heart melts.Not because he's fixing it,but because I knowhe wants me safe.
I never learned the rules about meter or metaphor, or what not to say out loud. I just write what lives inside me: the bruises, the blossoms...
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