Thursday


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1. Thursday

The Thursday agony of choosing

Who I am.

This? Too manly.

This? Too blue.

This? Too fancy.

This? Too You.

 

And we sit here and spin

Words and silver twisting

Thoughts into knots.

My scars are too white here.

Too bright here.

The air is too tight here and I’m choking

On the truth.

Bitter. Acrid. Solid.

Real.

 

A mirror held up to every

Blemish

Crack

Imperfection.

 

Thoughts are like thorns here cutting

Into tender confidence.

And we wear armour to stop these invasions.

 

Only the brave walk bared.

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