So Go To Sleep

You said my hands were beautiful.
You said, with my hands, I made beautiful things.
And when you held them, you didn’t mind that the knuckles cracked
so long as I could put words to it;
so long as I could use the sound for song and sing along.
You loved it when I lied to you,
but then, you only called it story telling.
So I’m telling you a story.
It’s the same story you ask for over and over again:
You don’t have to worry.
You never hurt me.
You don’t have to worry.
You didn’t do anything wrong.

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