My grip tightens on every passing thought

squeezing them, waiting for meaning to pour out

only it never does

Then I’m left holding an empty husk

that I add to the growing pile

and forget about in search of another

with blood perhaps that holds what I seek

This too I will drain and use to write secrets

filling the lines of my hand

with scarlet messages 

inscribed and already fading

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What have you walked away from in the past? Do you regret it?

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Photo by Maan Limburg on Unsplash