Know Better

On Sunday’s twisted ankles,
I rise.

Crisp from the night
freckled forearm
was held in search light,
flesh exposed.

You spoke to me in my sleep,
slipped seeds inside the hollow of ear,
causing me to thrash against pillows,
desperate for you to tie me down.

As I shook into ripped sheets,
convulsed into the nook of your shoulder,
you held my tongue to the top of your mouth
and told me to breathe
normally.

You know better
than to fall for flattery,
and I know better
than to sweep a lock
of hair from your forehead
in hopes you will see me
for what I truly am.

It’s only a matter of time,
before you look across breakfast table
and wonder how you ever loved
a person like me.

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