Porcupine

You are all spines

And I am all punctures

Waiting to happen.

I’m sorry I used you

As an instrument of my own destruction

By saying it was fine

That I was also all needles.

But once I saw where the wounds could be

It seemed fitting and right.

Because a weak spot

Broken and healed

Is no longer weak.

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Misplaced Baggage

“Thank you,”

I say, soundless.

I hope he can read lips,

While not looking at my face.

I had spent too long away,

Lost in thoughts far from the crowd,

And upon returning found

My voice had been lost in transit.

I try again,

To push the words out,

But by then he’s gone,

And I’m kicking myself,

For being rude,

And being away,

While someone,

A strange someone,

Was being with me.