Each question, I pick from my skin
And wish I never asked it
The answers passed to me like notes in a classroom
I stuff them in my pockets
They fill the empty space but do not heal the wounds
I think myself wise, spending the paper
Each folded note padding the pockets of other people’s jeans
Pinched between two fingers I pluck the question
From the most delicate bit of skin
Will I always have a hand to hold?
On lined paper, soft from passing hands and trading pockets
There in tiny print made by fingers I don’t know
Sometimes the things we don’t know do hurt us.
Crumpled in the corner of my pocket, I let it stay
A reminder to stop asking
Love this…it rings so true