It’s the kind words that hurt the most.
not the playground names but
the love you before you catch
the train to a new city,
the I’m proud of you when your father
takes your hand in his, mottled with liver spots .
the I’m sorry that transforms
comfortable anger into aching regret.
we are a powerless in the face of love,
held hostage by the threat that
it might slip from our fingers.
it is unbearable.
it is exquisite
I am a writer and recent from the University of Cambridge in the UK. I love to write poetry, fiction and journalism and travel writing and regularly perform spoken word poetry. I love discovering new original poetry from writers on wordpress, twitter and instagram and am excited to see all the guest posts on this blog. My blog handle is sarahcollinswrites.wordpress.com
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