Fortune Telling

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 

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