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Chipped Teacups

The nails on my left hand are chipped and broken
and grubby, even though I am right-handed
and it would make more sense for it to be
the other way around. I would hide them
if vanity didn't seem like a waste of time.
 
My eyes are tired and my lips are chewed,
I would call it a nervous habit if I could think
of a decent excuse for being nervous.
I am wondering why it is that I can't sleep,
that shadows chase my mind through
 
half-forgotten doorways in my memory
and take me through houses of the past
(because I don't live there anymore).
I am wondering why it is that I can't sleep
because that would be my miracle cure.
 
But it's not that I am looking for a cure-all,
just a little something to show me that
I am at least reading from the right book,
even if I'm not on the right page just yet.
The nails on my left hand are chipped and broken
 
like the sad, old teacups we found when
we were clearing out my grandma's house.
She must have liked collecting broken things -
nothing worked (in the end, nor did her heart).
But at least she's sleeping now.
 
I am wondering why it is that I can't sleep.

Emily Smith


If you have any comments on this poem, Emily Smith would be pleased to hear them.

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