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I’m glad

there’s honey in my eyes but ivy in your own.

my fingers are tired from holding our loose threads together,

maybe some strings are meant to fray away.

mother, i have outgrown the golden child age,

you’re the anxiety in my head and the heaviness in my heart,

the home which feels like it’s on fire.

I’m glad that I don’t have your eyes,

it would be cruel to see the world the way that you do.

Recommend0 Simily SnapsPublished in All Stories, Poetry