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Wrists by James Miller
​
Sick with guilt,
heavy inside.
Is it time?
I shudder at the thought—
white wristband, blue gown
too tight, too loose,
too much, too late—
the ache of missing you
gripping my abdomen.
Let me come back to you
one day, eyes un-sunken,
like the birds in the spring.
Can you feel me
on the April horizon?
Don’t lose sight of me now—
find me in your wrists
and cracked lips.
About the Author:
James Miller is a third year psychology student. His experiences with mental health, addiction, and the body often inspire his poetry.
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