I hold invisible barriers
like shields to block myself
from your sight.
I cover my mouth in masks
of smiles, a poker face
of 'I'm OK.'
Under my skin
I tremble in insecurities -
of not being
enough or
of being
too much.
As I slip away,
running backwards
I mouth whispers,
to you.
You step
into my path
and catch my waist
just before I stumble
on overgrown weeds
posing as passion flowers;
I'm surprised to find
your hand in mine,
your face mirroring
my inner wars.
I awaken to the present
and am lifted out
of fantasies of old
and take my first step
with you.
Tracee Clapper lives with her family in Charleston, SC. She spends time in and draws most of her inspiration from nature, specifically birds and their habitats. She’s been published in The Blue Nib, Poppy Road Review, Spillwords Press, Young Ravens Literary Review, Impspired Magazine, and The Weekly Avocet.
She writes to heal her soul and those of anyone else within whom her work resonates.
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