This took a certain vulnerability from me — ripped it out of my hands and pocketed it whole; fresh. This feels a little like sandpaper running along the surfaces of my skin, scraping off debris and divulging me with a new, glossy finish.
This is my birth — the sharp edges of all my pieces smoothing themselves out. They are converging towards the light, providing the promise of a soul renewed.
This wraps my tongue around each consonant of your name — I skip the vowels as if I want to take something from you — and leaves me nothing. You are none of my blank spaces. You are all my prior convictions.