I’ve been the invisible friend, the cowlick in the middle of the scalp. Parted sideways, pitching tents for newcomers, A broomstick of sortments, a lampshade – a tender flicker listening. Flowering others in light
what I’ve been…
When you walked, your shoes stepped over mine, the bumble, the busy/ tend not to see. while there are more fountains /they’ve always been- colored ones, white ones, Latino, cisterns salted with the same steam. Heated from the same mud.
My friends, she’s always speaking
as if I can’t,
“she meant to say”
“sorry – she spoke out of turn”
buzzing under my fog- no I didn’t/watch it/ I’m walking here too
“I know she didn’t bend far over enough, to let you pass.” “Hey, are those new shoes? They look nice on you”
“Where you’d get them? I like that pink lace, iced out/high tops”
I bent down to rub the corner of my toe- to feel it ain’t broke, no parts missing
my thoughts/ belong to hers/ I am the Moabite/ woman at the well/ at high noon
everyone thirst,
I let even you drink first, a common courtesy I believe
my sip will taste different
by the time I start – the waters are warmer now, fountains running, over boiling
I don’t mind – room temperature but from now on, I won’t let nobody
not even you,
my friend, burn my tongue
kindness sis. Krissy (free photo pixabay)
That’s right, Krissy! No more getting stepped on! Good for you!
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Amen & I can still do that and be kind( lol – no doormats here please) thank you Lori 🙂
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All … all … from the same mud.
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Really felt this! Love how at the end or this piece you’re reclaiming your power 💜
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thank you Ash 🙂
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Bravo,Bravo,Bravo!!!!
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