I missed the window of my telling
you who you are. My greatest
talent, f*cked too thin to mend,
or maim when it mattered most.
I’m not mad anymore, just sifting
through the wreckage of my gift—
this heft of language, all I ever said,
only salve on hand to save us, too often
out of stock.
Words flawless on paper, I fell...
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