The willful child plays a game of
hide and seek
— on the edges of my collarbone it tiptoes;
on the fragility of my skeleton it tickles;
on the tenderness of my heart it nibbles.
On the lucky occasion it rests,
I breathe and, I’m
Sometimes it sneaks into this sanctuary where
— unlike itself — there is an order;
It guides the trajectory of thoughts,
and gives them the power of certainty
the same one a rock has
even when its carelessly thrown;
The child laughs and whispers, How foolish you are,
to believe you are more than You.
you are merely a tool masters use.
you, they use to protect something
And with its silly pride, the babe crawls,
to its mother’s flesh,
And once again I choke —