This isn't my spring.
In the back of the closet I think I can talk where no one can hear me, it is where I whisper into the sequined dresses and cotton shirts. Where I can turn these reds and blues into hush.
Even in sleep there is no hidden self and what pockets of sky are shared with the echos.
Still
the sun sets right at the edge of my eye
the ocean, the horizon
the ledge
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