Museum
No one ever asks a museum
if it's doing okay.
So when you choose to spill like this,
bleed like this, cry like this,
your pain becomes an exhibit.
You hang your trauma on the wall,
ask patrons not to touch, but only
half of them respect the signs.
When you choose to be a poet,
you become a place that people walk through
and then leave when they are ready.
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