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It is a terrible thing
To be so open: it is as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world.
- "Three Women," Sylvia Plath
A flower risks
every time
the petals open.
The threat looms
always,
waiting for the precise
moment, when bees
inject their venom
and snatch sweetness
away, or shears
amputate stems
at the kneecap, and we
crumple and fly apart,
ushered by the wind's
insistence that we
change. The falling seeds—
and where they land—
our only consolation.
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