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Written by: Debbie Guzzi

The things which mar us, scar us
leave creases in the skin
these repetitive rutting’s
necessary?
One wonders. 

Would that we bend like the willow branch,
curl like the twining vine
yet, perhaps we do?

Slouched-shouldered,
rounding inward to hide our hovering hearts.
Turtle-necked without the shell to sink,
pigeon-toed with eyes downcast
perhaps, we have morphed
contorted
without our knowledge
as minute by minute
we knuckle under
to life.