Tugging at my edges,
tempting me to Feel.
but not steering.
Providing momentum,
but not pushing.
Unearthing scars
while washing
the salt away.
Encouraging fear,
condoning anger.

I admit, I question
your logic and hesitate
at your affirmations
that neither will break,
wondering if you know
how cracked I am,
if you realize
how thick the grime is
that covers my pores,
preventing the release
that you insist is natural.

“We have nothing to fear
but fear itself,”
but oh how that fear
Allowing doubt to play
with every dream,
and sorrow to shadow
every advance.

Five minutes is all you ask.
(4 minutes more
than it takes to
to disintegrate into
ashes and dust.)
How do I trust that
shame won’t consume,
tears won’t drown,
pain won’t win?

You insist
the fabric is strong.
But I fear
pulling too hard,
causing a rip.
Gripping too strong,
leaving a mark.
Grasping too tight,
harming the wearer.

It’s painful to let go
when there is nothing
to hold.
It’s hard to see
when there is
no light.
It’s impossible to heal
when there are
no injuries.

It’s difficult to leap
when your faith
is so frail.

You know this
and more.
Yet you offer,
despite the
your fabric
to hold,
to catch,
to comfort.

And so in return,
I’ll give
five minutes.
To drown,
to fall,
to fear.
To fight.

(To take
a step


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