August 22, 2011
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Talks that hurt
Talks that bleed.
Words that are blurted out
In hopes of uplifting.

Good news, bad news
They come in pairs.
Delivered to your front door,
A box
Wrapped in a black ribbon.

Pick up the box
And glare in confusion
From side to side
Nobody’s there.

Open the box
You see a black rose
You reach with caution.

Pick up the rose
Turn it half way
You see one half: a black rose.
You see the other: a yellow rose.

You walk back inside and continue your conversation
You stare at the rose and finally:
Talks are not the only things that come in pairs.

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