Only Human

How you cannot climb out of the trope, you over schedule warm spring evenings so you don't have to come home and see the truth written out across blank pages. You know what the little voice inside you is trying to say so you choose not to listen. Plaster someone else's naked body over your gashes, see how long it sticks (the answer is it doesn't matter, nothing heals, the answer is stop looking at the clock it will not move). This circle is getting repetitive.

I found a four-leaf clover in the park this week. I found a bunch. I gathered them in my arms, they spilled over and littered my path, I stored them in my books of poetry and asked the Universe to share my luck because how much could I possibly need and wouldn't I rather it go to those I love? I found another the next day, and another, the Universe winks at me, we laugh in tandem, and how fragile it is  when the storm clouds move in on the horizon. I thought if I buffered my home with enough wishes on shooting stars I would be protected, but here's the thing:

At the end of the day, they're only meteorites and wilting plants.

At the end of the day, you will bleed until you are willing to listen.