There is a kind of ugliness, a rawness, an authenticity that comes from being stripped back, unravelled,
unhealed,
revealed.
Our humanness, so beautiful in its awkwardness.
Dark ringed eyes after long nights spent feeding a small child from the milk of your bones. Or a day packing boxes of small lights and surgical masks, your poetry in hiding, your fists in the air. Or the failure to touch each other when, even after all of it, you are not too tired to try.
Flawed
Floundering
Fearless
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