Sweet Thing

Let the grief sit there, 
untouched. It’s an artifact that
can wait all of eternity to be examined.

Some will tell you to pick it up, caress it,
hold it. Some will filch the wound
to add to their own collection.

But sweet thing, you are not ready to inspire yet. You are too newly skinned to be put up as a trophy.

A time will come when you are leathered enough.

But until then, sweet thing,
sit in the room without speaking to this grief.

Be with it without saying a word.

Let it be what it is,

yours.