God raised us differently— I see,
as if drawn in pen
with errors crossed out,
marking His doubt.
and because I know no war and sought no refuge,
I can safely police
this relief my sorrows and our glee
with the guilt I’ll garden.
Then with the spade I own
I can fold these parts inside of me,
to create my delicate origami.
and I’ll live these two sides incomplete—until edges unravel.
and then your leftovers will sting.
Or u might stay—
and I may weep loudly again and again,
unfold
to watch me be stained
by the impression I made
on your dwindling impression
—of me.
Still:
I hope I keep long enough to love what He does see.