Ripples

The ripples are gone when I look,

searching the water for a slip of silver

twisting back on itself

leaping skyward in panic

or ecstasy perhaps.

I think about you and I,

or at least the phantom of us

that clings to my lungs on slow days,

crawls onto my shoulders

to press my face down, down, down,

down where I deserve to be

when my own body twisted back on itself,

my mouth searching for a way

to swallow the words I’d spoken,

to return them to the saftey of unspoken

rather than the spotlight

of my glowing red cheeks

as I fumbled to dress myself

in what I thought was maturity.

I can feel nails along my spine,

when I think of how much

I wanted to be loved.

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