I am all kindling and firecrackers with the kind of body
that if touched, burns. Long ago I decided I’d never let it be
a bomb shelter- I am no one’s safe haven.
I am no place for refuge.
I am blood mixed with salt water and a burial ground
that used to be a heart before too many failed loves
forced me to hold a funeral for everything I used to feel.
The saying goes that time heals all wounds,
but what if hidden inside the wound is another one?
My hands are more callouses than soft skin
from letting the last vestiges of all I’ve held dear
slip through my fingers like minnows.
Forgiveness is not in my toolbox, or even in my intentions.
If you hurt me, be prepared for a gutting
because I am the fish that lies belly-up, pale and exposed,
until danger strikes; then I am the knife stuck
inside that fish’s skin.
Blood trails are what lead to the remains
of the person I used to be, before love broke me
like a stained glass window.
But stained glass windows still know how to let the light in
in so many more beautiful ways than before.