Daisy Inked

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Loose threads, red ones,
Dangle across my wrist.
(This sweater is old,
A bit battered, not shabby but
No longer the bright pomegranate red
That was the reason I loved it so much in the first place.)
This cold metal of the blue ballpoint I’m holding
Begins to warm.
I’ve worn finger holds into this pen.
A doodle traces its way onto my hand
And petal by petal
Then stem
Then leaf,
A flower sprouts from my skin.
It’s slightly crooked,
A little jagged,
Colorless and impermanent.
Just
Another
Piece
Of
Human
Imperfection





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