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a gentle thing

By Brooke Miller



She’s all classy.

Black kitten heels sprawled at the bottom of her  

white dresser and white sheets 

stained with coconut oil.

At night she’s ghostly and pretty. 


She's like me, you know. 

we’re both people’s sanctuaries, 

taking up space for others to sleep in. 


I can rip my tights without shame in her and

stain my silk sleep mask 

with mascara smudges.

They don't ever go away these days. 


The book I made for my ex-lover’s anniversary 

is face down on a rolling cart

that I bought freshman year with my 

Mother. 


would she have told me to be more gentle? 

No, she would have told me to rage.


I built that polished wooden desk 

while crying about a broken bracelet and my roses dying.

Acetone stains dotting the finish

because who else will paint my toes if i don't do it myself.


And there’s a hole in the wall next to my bed

from me throwing down the heaviest piece of the dresser while building it.

It caught at the corner

like my nails digging into my thighs. 

The instructions said one person couldn’t hold it alone. 


My toothbrush still doesn't have a holder and 

The Monet book lies on my nightstand 

with his handwriting and 

God, do I ever want to buy a $74 Diptyque candle 

just to throw it off my fire escape

because no one would tell me no.  


I don't want to be a gentle thing.  

Let me thrash around in my hand-me-down sheets 

and be dangerous in the night 

but do not fear me. 


We both look gentle on the outside

but once you get inside her, 

you see she’s not so gentle after all. 






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