Introspect, Retrospect

Do Ut Des

they do not tell you (your parents I mean)
how easy it is to steal.
Open folds keep the chill
away,
and laughter buries insecurity,
your fear of death outlining
the eyes and the mouths.

you are given keys
that bite the softness of
holy palm.

the sweet and the sick
make children of us all, hoarding
secrets as if they will keep
the sun burning at night,
flowers blooming
in the winter.

They do not tell you (your lovers
I mean) that you steal
into the secrets; you
can’t reclaim the keys

but you can laugh
at the slipperiness of the feeling,
and how tightly
you let yourself be held,
and how scared you are
of the mouths,
the eyes.

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