poem

 Small and Insecure

I am small and insecure

Yet assert a certain feigned 

Savoir faire of the martyr

Down to the last arrow

In his quiver 

Some of it is made of plastic

Just touch me until

You find the places I can’t feel  

Some of it is made of wood.

As I get closer to the end

I’ll use it for kindling.

Some is iron 

But in all the wrong places

Just makes me feel heavy

I sink, but faster 

As for more precious metals 

I like to think I gave it all away

But no, it’s still stashed there

In the locked room where I never go 

The rest is flesh

The rest is bone

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