They point fingers, they shake heads,
They make boots for me from lead,
And I bow down to the floor,
Begging them to curse some more.
Their heels dig into my bare shins,
And they’re convinced I’m made of tin.
I break my lashes into pieces
As they spill my wine and reasons.
They know how to make me tick
Even when I’m burned and sick.
I wish they had some sharper blades.
My truth spews flames from greyish shade.
They turn my stomach inside out,
Kiss my goodbyes on the mouth.
I hope one day I lose all ink
Or break the part that makes me think.
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 