I do better with a thousand small lights, draped
tactfully over my sharp edges, like I’m a humble
Cape Cod dressed up for the holidays, haloed.

I prefer to turn my face up to a chorus of light,
a sunflower in the longest days of summer, before
its seeds grow heavy, its visage morose. For awhile

I loved the white, hot glare of your spotlight.
It warmed me instantly and too much, but I felt
the cold all the more when you turned away,
uncomfortable yourself with all that you’d seen.

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