This has no Title.

Don’t you cry.

Don’t you dare let them see you cry.

Don’t you mistakenly catch a glance,

From that moving man, that helping stranger–

No, do not do that.

Or your mother,

Or your father.

Let them lift and arrange,

Watch their hands, chin down.

The way they’re so very careful with their hands.

Handling the gift, the cynosure of the evening– no, longer than that.

The tears in your eyes tells you that you will be thankful,

Longer than that.

Walk as though

Your sight has not been blurred;

Pretend the new shades of all that is ligneous,

Is not swirling together in a pool of happiness.

Pretend you’re not too happy.

Pretend this is not a big deal to you

Pretend this isn’t all you’ve ever wanted for a long while

And then,

Pretend as though the bitterness from before,

Has been long gone.

Don’t you dare bring up what’s been long gone.

You’ll only bring yourself to tears again.

Which you weren’t supposed to do in the first place.

Just wait till the hands stop moving.

Till the new things start to feel like your new things;

Settled and perfectly placed, the way such things should be.

The way they should’ve been for the past year;

The way they haven’t been  for the past year.

And finally,

When you hug your mother,

When you squeeze her tight–

(because you’ll be able to do nothing other than squeeze her tight)

–Hide those pink eyes, and your blotchy pink cheeks.

Thank her Averly.

Tell her how you hope she seeps well,

Because tonight will be the night

she is no longer on the floor.

And your father is no longer on the floor,

And your brothers are no longer sharing sheets on the floor,

And you, yourself,

You’re now in a bed as well.

Sleeping next to your oak wood dresser,

And you now have a lamp.

Now, don’t you dare cry at the thought,

Of being able to light up the dark,

Once again.

-Donye

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