Armed

Sometimes I feel as if a nurse stapled my heart on my sleeve soon after my birth, where all can see it to harm and hit me up. While their action rips and bruises my heart, I’ve realized at least that my arm is unhurt. I lift it up and wave bye-bye. My legs are well, too, and I walk away to stand with others who are healing and good. If not alert, it is well to be armed: Boundaries and Bye-bye.

Skin-colored hearts

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