sleepwalking through coming of age.
these are delicate conversations of iron, mouthfuls of glass.
a flat, reflective map with snow covered mountains
trap rooms, thin ice in their memory.
we whisper through the nooks and crannies that cannot be seen
more than six feet above ground level
she said,
the other half of this candle burning at both ends
could liberate the pain.
I offered, would I still be a refugee wandering,
averse to the complexities of living?
& if these are not
learned responses
from hours
hiding in closets
then what
of
listening to your gut
these lurching minutes, I prefer the haunt of our silence.
🏔️💬