No Graying

People snipped away at my faith in people,

but at 13, the scissors slipped.

My insides ventured out and squinted

in the light.

Stars, enormity, light stomachs, fluttering, me, you.

Every person is a blowfish, and every

morning a validation.

She: paper chains, longer than I thought. You:

clothes made of locked doors and parallels,

and I: out by the river, the only quiet place

I could think of.

A cold blade, the water; my feet,

the renewal of winter, the twist

of a Coke cap, the forgetting of absolved sins,

the slick rocks kicked

gently along the bed.

Voices. A voice.

I confess, I have at times wished for Hell,

if only to be alone for a while.

But a doe on the other bank

reminds me of my need.