If you are not following Ali, or at least checking her blog daily, you are missing out.
Maybe the truth is that I
am a broken miracle, something
you never wanted, weightless
and unimportant, a cut-out heart
that still manages to take up
too much space.
Maybe what you call life
is merely survival, and who
hasn’t been in that lion’s mouth?
But I’ve got the scars to prove
I wasn’t martyred, and whenever
it was offered I drank the wine –
but this missing has gotten so big
that I’m lost in it, and what I want
is to lose this fear of heights
and fall without falling down.
Maybe my heart is just black ice
and it’s always the middle of the night,
maybe I fear I am that ordinary,
a pretty face, your worst mistake,
not worth taking a stand for –
sometimes, betrayal feels a lot like indecision.
Maybe I’m the Patron Saint
of Bad Choices, a hand-me-down heart
too stubborn to…
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