Mone D. Moore


Her name was Spring,

But she felt like Winter—

Shivering leaves and biting wind.

I thought I could save her with my love,

Thought I could kiss away the raised reliefs of her pain

on the map of her flesh.

I reached out to her even as she pulled back,

Until the pit of her self-loathing swallowed her whole.

Her name was Spring,

And she passed just as quickly.

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