Thimble
‘Welcome to the museum’ she said
unbuttoned her ribs
dusted off the scars
and lined her waist with velvet rope
admission is free this year
I already feel sorry
for myself
there is no grace in her victories
no absence of pride in her face
when for once,
she can paint it
however she wants
she calls me out for not keeping a sketchbook
I told her
I keep a journal instead
and she took it as
she’s never honest, even with herself
she’s right
I never understood why abuse
had all of it’s flinching children
inherit pity like her father’s ratchet
clicking under displaced bones
I am expected to respect the breaks
while she wakes the neighborhood
fixing herself
So I went to the corner store
bought 4 nails
and told her she could make a cross
and live on it too
or make pegs in the wall
to climb out of the dorm
where you started freezing tears
but you chose before I could finish
now you are the palms of christ
and the pointed nail
sailing through muscle
like a touchdown pass
