sensitivity is not armor, some say.
yet it is how i keep myself warm,
as alive as a river rushing through thick forest
and patches of soft-bellied mushrooms.
my feet still bleed when stumbling over tree roots
jutting up from the ground
like bony elbows.
but through feeling, i am protecting myself
from numbness, cold gaspings of thin, threadbare air.
when i journey through your dead eyes
i find frozen memories and cracked vulnerability
drifting like melting icebergs
in those waters.
love,
mari