I am younger than insult.
My hard body soaks in salt water.
If you like it, I will bottle it,
a beautiful, gentle tea.
I smell steady. Like a brief cut
across my fingertip fades,
so will this scent. Let me package it.
Let me blush while you reach for
let my heart run a rabbit’s run.
Touch my breath,
intruder! Take me as a stranger,
a boiling black tea.
I gracefully apologize.
This is me.
Posted on March 20, 2013, in Poetry and tagged apology, assurance, dark poetry, dark writing, emotion, expression, Honesty, identity, independence, journal, life, Literature, open book, poetry, Raw, self-improvement, sorry, tea, Truth, writing. Bookmark the permalink. 17 Comments.