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I first turned my hand to writing

After I experienced grief

first, and foremost,

though not entirely my own

A grief I did not understand,

did not know

And so began the habit

of wearing my heart

on my sleeve

intertwined with others

hearts

Their problems combined

with mine

Taking on their burden

without question

or objection

Years have passed

and the stitching has grown

more intricate

more complex

Ashamed, afraid, betrayed

I pull a jacket on

shield myself from the world

I stand, holding my burdens

and others

sometimes too weak to

breathe

And I reach days

where I take the jacket off

at its weight,

Paired with the weight of

the novel stitched to my arm

my side

Flowing across my body

as the veins that keep me alive

Becoming a part of

who I am

and was

and will be

Helping me, hurting me, shaping me

A challenge I rise to

and fall from

in the living of a glorious life

Be thankful, I am reminded

that holding the burdens of myself

and others

is nothing when compared to the evils of this world

Selfishness, they instruct

think for yourself and none else

Yes, to an extent,

I am wrong in letting others

take such a hold on my being

But what they do not choose to see

Is the rebellion

the resistance in my eyes

the objection to be

ordinary.





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