My gemstoned anxieties
worn everyday
as pierced earrings,
ordinary things,
with a "not good enough" gleam.
Words leave my tongue
axially off, wobbled.
A broken rib, collar, or rim,
are remnant anger, or hypocrisy,
held in.
As a woman I must sense
be vigilant
of all things that define my surroundings.
Why was I "gifted" a candled insight
that illuminates but never warms,
a warning, not a companion?
Will I find, too late,
I’ve fled
some part of myself
I might have saved?
