by Mindy L. Messenger

She is made of incandescent granite,
not of willow tress that bend easily
from wind cracking past burning stone cliffs

that buckle into mountain bases.
She wanted to be paper dipped in words-
to be folded as an origami flower

with each petal drenched in declarations
her corners and seams frayed from distrust,
drowning in white-capped street water.

She needed her core split apart-
to feel viscid pulp flow from wounds-
but she knew that rocks don't rip that way.

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