Newfound by Melissa Hougard
What we were, and what would come our tenderness, undone.
I poured liquid over cloudy moons, while you painted your eyes with crystals and danced with yourself, in propped up mirrors.
Our hidden wounds.
Prickly pain, aching to be numb.
So, while I swaddle myself in paper walls, wet faced clutching at my worry doll--
a newfound pulpit, is still an inebriated stage, a sober trunk full of shiny new props, to escape.
Originally published on All Poetry
Check out more of Melissa's work here.