Should have hid it better,

so that they wont see.

The smallest parts of me,

laid out on this table

for all to see.

My crumpled pieces of paper,

they dry me from the river.

Shy, little frowning figure

trudge away the distance

between our heads.

It was a cold year, he said.

I do agree.

I’ve woken to practicality

and lost so much joy in doing so.

How could one even imagine

waking so angry,

all of the time.

Such a sharp point you rise onto.

Are you ready to see it again?

The walls painted down from

their old, faded days.

Is this still my home?

Or just a quiet land

on which I was raised.

I’m sure you can understand how it feels.

I’ve been running ever since I got here.