I wake up early on sunday mornings.
My pen calls to me, my notebook impatient.
Write, it commands, fill me up.
But my pen hangs over, heavy,
like ripeness pulling branches down,
it strains in the air.
My arm and wrist know the truth though,
how I didn't know what forgiveness was
til I was called to it.
How I resemble a man with my anger wrapped tight in a ball
lodged in my throat. I've seen them since
little pieces of the sun flashing through upturned frowns
trying to smile their way past the memory
of the hurt in darkness that they left behind.
They must think that I don't remember
the whispers they started
of a girl and her pen
trying to write on sunday mornings.
Amazing.
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