You pulled me in your dry cracked skin
with callouses so big they needed a glove-
compartment. Filled the cup with cherry wine. It was
my PICC line. And I laid there with nothing

to do. I barely could move because I was
attached to it. It was inserted in my veins. You thought
this was required, for my benefit. I was sent home
still attached to it. But it made me sick. It left

me cold. I needed a person to hold,
not a line. A line was words that I wrote. It was
a sheet of music for me to share. It
wasn’t meant for sole distribution You took on that,

with your circus flare and body works, even when
I wasn’t there. You did it through the line. And when
I ripped if off the blood shot out. I was drained and ghastly. Look
at how much it cost me. The bruise is still there

reupholstered as a chair. But I’m not. The umbilical cord
is tossed. I’m still writing lines, yet not attached to one. I said
I was done with it. I’m free. I’ve movement. I still miss
being hooked-up. But I’m better off