I’m not the only kid who grew up this way,
surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme about sticks and
stones,
as if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called.
And we got called them all so we grew up believing no one would
ever fall in love with us,
that we’d be lonely forever that we’d never meet
someone to make us feel like the sun.
Something they built for us in their tool shed,
so broken heart strings bled the blues,
as we tried to empty ourselves so we would feel nothing.
Don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone.
that an ingrown life is something surgeons
can cut away that there’s no way for it to metastasize.