All the Things I Could Not Have but Was Given

They could not foresee the best gift

was the words and pictures held on

pages turned with calloused fingers

read with varied inflection, tone.

Tucked in tightly, thrilling words kept 

eyes and ears enthralled. I listened

over, over. But my short life, 

desert spent, would not hold seagulls

needing nimble, clever fingers

freeing them from bondage, nor would

my feet ever know the feel of

thickets, bracken, dew in gardens.

Ungentle Me

Take me to the serrated edge—

slice into my softest places—

sew my skin closed and leave a scar.

Break my breath

into a thousand brittle shards—

make me swallow them again, gasping.

Lash my name until it frays,

splays its letters into thin threads—

send me away unknown, naked.

Wind a rope around my wrists—

tempt me with promises—

leave me bound, alone.

Forge my skin into metal—

temper my heart to iron—

burn away any dust of tenderness.