I.
If my memories serve
as a needle in point,
then I splinter my fingers
every time.
II.
With broken hands,
I cradle myself, imagining
a stack of needles
but what of the hay?
III.
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?”
Royal Rose 