Tacks Between Us

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By Tyrean A. Martinson

The pushpin box tumbles from my grasp
Clatters open on the hard boards
Sharp tacks skittering into corners.

The main heap of pointy ends
Between the door and my desk.
I leave them, not sure why until —

You barge in, demanding –
“What are you doing now? Why? I need you to – Ow!”
A tack stops your stride.

And … I am not sorry. I am Not sorry. I Am not.

I used to be sorry for everything undone,
Even my thoughts, tumbling like tacks,
sharp edges under the surface of us.

I am not sorry now.

             
“I love words. I love the shape and taste of them. I find refuge in words and stories. I don’t always get it ‘right,’ but I write anyway. It’s in my bones.” – the writer

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