Intentions seem impossible to discern
after years of accumulated burns.
Am I assuming the worst or wincing
rightly at acid served up as sweet tea?
Am I being sensitive or sensing
the snake in the person across from me?
I ask and ask and ask myself constantly.
YOU ARE READING
Every Last Drop
Poetryfor hard times. for the lonely late nights. and the tears we cry. every last drop. * all rights reserved
