Pucker of lips
not always for kisses—
sometimes it’s the sour truth,
the bite of lemon on the tongue
reminding you
how alive you still are.
The wind puckers the lake,
a thousand tiny furrows in its silver skin,
like someone whispering secrets
with their mouth almost closed.
Old photographs pucker at the edges—
sun-faded memories
curling inward,
like they’re trying to fold back into themselves,
escape the weight of remembering.
A pucker in fabric,
a flaw in the stitching—
beautiful in its defiance
of straight lines and clean design,
like laughter at a funeral
or love in a warzone.
Even the heart puckers sometimes,
tightens in the chest—
not just from fear,
but from holding something too precious
to speak aloud.
Not everything smooth is honest.
Not every crease wants to be ironed out.
Therapy Bits 
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