Sour Girl

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Sourgirl
Yesterday’s post
was a poem. A poem because aptly, caution stayed my hand. At first, I wanted to rant and rave and vent my feelings and spew out a lengthy diatribe against the knifepoint person, but I thought better of it. I thought, years from now there is a chance my sons will read this, and I’d rather spare them the details. Thus, I sought the refuge, as always, of poetry.

That weekend, for about five minutes there, the world narrowed to a small point, balancing on the tip of a long-bladed knife that, ordinarily, would do damage only to a carcass of meat, a sliver of fish. Metaphor for a life that’s hanging by frayed threads.

I find it darkly amusing, how present comparisons revolve around sharpness and keen points. A sharp turn of temper snaps composure, and my resolve breaks. A line has been crossed, wounds re-opened, nerves left raw. I would need a few days to recover from this sourness. Meanwhile, outside there is insane sunshine, trees root down three more feet, dust motes rise, cars speed by unhampered, people everywhere continue to smile, smile, smile.

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