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marie
There is a tiny patch of skin underneath my left wrist bone
That is always dry and rough
No matter how much calamine I rub upon it
It remains tough as leather
I lay in bed at night
Tracing its surface with my fingers
Wondering why it never softens
And wondering why lavender smells the way it does
Nostalgic and comforting, yet fresh and tingling all at once
And wondering why my grandparents are dead and if they are in Heaven
And asking God that, but mostly wondering
Wondering why everything costs money and why none of us have enough of it
And wondering why I chose to paint my room green
Instead of creamy yellow
A gentler color would soothe my racing thoughts, maybe
The face of the moon reflects off my picture frames
I can only see the edges
Darkness shadows what is inside
I lay in bed and trace my wrist bone
And wonder if my heart will ever grow old
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