little poems

my legs tessellate together

like cheese slices placed by an artist on fresh bread

my eyes dart over words

purchased from a billionaire newlywed

a layer of thick fabric

cloaks my shoulders to my feet

the ham to the cheese

cut me in half

i’m ready

hollow out your body

hollow out your mind

hollow out your heart

so you can speak in kind

look up at the moon glow

look down at small screens

in the room with your beloveds

don’t stare straight at the sun

look close in the mirror

memorise the pores

touched by the glimmer

of lost connection

we speak of healing

as if we scraped a knee

that never scabbed

we carry on with life

sometimes a dull pain

we remember the injury

what if

we can’t find the wound

to stick with a bandaid

and whisper affirmations to

soak in tea, honey and

a stranger’s psychology degree

they say healing isn’t linear

what shape does mine take?

pentagon with straight sides

mass extracted from the heart

creature with soft eyes

and sharp teeth

a work of art

a work of art

my wound is not a shape

it is weights kept in my body

collecting stones

from paths not travelled

handed to me by lost loves

trophies for scars on the mind

treasured beneath my skin