PAST THE SELF

  Not all good passes

  with age and ticking hands.

  In the beginning I

  was in awe of everything.

  Eager to reach for

  cords and carpet fuzz.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Everything that passed

  through my hands

  a treasure.

  In the middle

  I was littered with the

  flash and blind of others,

  the roses flashing thorns—

  I wanted the satin,

  Even if I bled.

  Only now do I begin

  to see the other

  flowers in the garden

  are just as weak as me.