It tends to be an awful mess.
I play with the glue, tape, staples
sutures, stitches, rivets, screws.
Bolts, nails, Band-Aids, string and
chewing gum
for as long as I can.

That’s why when you broke my fingers,
I didn’t say a word, I didn’t want you
to notice I hadn’t any fingers left—
when I was done
with my makeshift med kit.

That’s why when you bruised my ribs,
I only winced once, when you hammered
my toes, there were only two tears, when
you cracked my skull I stayed conscious to say
I’d be okay, but when you were done reshaping
everything, replacing every part of me and finally
turned on my heart, I let you take it, stitching only
what was left
of my lips together so I couldn’t scream.

Which was a mistake.  Of all the holes left
I wouldn’t repair, leaving my core hollow
was sure to collapse every single
*****-trapped, ghetto-rigged,
and half-*** bandaged
contraption I used
to replace
myself.