When I was little

I’d hand my soul to anyone

When they dropped it

I’d hide my pain with a smile

dust it off

and try to rub out the scratches

 

I had always assumed that dropping it was

an accident

butterfingers, my bad

but some people wanted to see

what it was made of, if it

would bruise like fruit or

shatter like glass

If they’d asked, I would have told them,

it’s a living thing. The fall hurts but

the healing hurts worse

 

Now I don’t allow anyone

to touch it

not even myself

Stay distant, don’t probe the wound

Now my soul is guarded

wrapped in its bandages

tucked behind my heart