poem about letting go
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If my heart were a hand
you would be the hangnail that,
no matter what size or sharpness of tweezer I use
to pry you from between the dry, exposed skin
and the shell protecting delicate, blue flesh,
I can’t seem to cut you loose.
I know that when I finally pluck your roots
settled deep in my veins
there will be pain and I will bleed.
But, as we both know,
blood eventually dries
and washes away.


more by A. M. LAINE

photograph by S Zolkin


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