A.
Plates.
When colliding with wooden walls thrown from hand that have had enough
even in this weakness you show strength.
B.
Bones.
You have broken 27 bones, had six surgeries, and tasted deaths lips twice
Each bone grew back strong and imperfect after splitting from its whole.
I manage to find beauty in this recklessness you made of your life.
C.
Pencils.
I kept losing my pencils, so you always carried an extra
when I left school for the second time you
took that stash and made a production of snapping each one like you claimed I snapped your heart
D.
But hearts don’t break,
they become misshapen with every trauma named you
and still manage to pump the blood that I draw from behind its curtain with shards of that plate you shattered
This canvas I want to tear myself from is what you once loved
cushioning your bones from life’s recklessness,
and I now realize those extra pencils you gave to me
were what you considered a consolation for always taking pieces of me