This morning I’m more fragile than I’ve ever been before.
Like a building made from fretwork with an icing sugar floor.
I am walking round on stilts of balsa wood and every vein
Is as brittle as the patterns carved from frost on windowpanes.
My stomach is a cobweb ball that’s somehow tied in knots.
My mind is as diaphanous as gossamer. There’s lots
And lots of housework still needs doing, but the day’s already dead
And the insubstantial membrane of existence hangs in threads.


35 responses to “Fragile

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