It is not just when the wind cuts
like the sharp side of a sigh
and the grit of the world
burns hard
against my lids.

It is when I am asked
too much of the moment—
the cordial crush of a hand
against the shy curve
of my wrist—

I close my mind
when the light rushes
through my lashes
when it spills over my knowing
too bright, too quick—
memory sharpens
teeth biting down
on the soft parts of me.

The world turns
into a room too crowded—
promises clambering over each other
their breath pressing
thick and restless
waiting for me
to choose one to believe in.

And sometimes
it is only for the sake
of opening them again
to see the world sharper—
to let the colors
bleed into my seeing
to watch the light
forgive me
for looking away.