Prick by Keana Águila Labra


If my memories serve
as a needle in point,
then I splinter my fingers
every time.


With broken hands,
I cradle myself, imagining
a stack of needles

but what of the hay?


Invasive and unwanted,
this needle grazes the edge
of my mind, bringing the unthinkable,

“maybe this isn’t what I want—
is it too late to move on?”

*Previously published in Rose Quartz Magazine

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