Sometimes prose needs line breaks, needs to be read slowly, so that one’s heart can feel the weight of the words and break a little, if it must.

that’s how thick 
I am, 
I never knew how 
to want 
what everyone wants.  
I only 
to look for a home, some place 
to be taken in. 
Handing over a crumpled heart, 
seeing it dropped 
in the wastepaper basket

(written as prose on page 473, The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver)

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