objects
objects
small alone and uncalled-for
inept, never fits
can’t be opened and shouldn’t be
empty, see-through
as a cemetary as a museum
as a display for what’s behind
frail, never weak
cut the bread, extract a slice
grey matter waiting to be filled with a purpose
I knead it and spread it across my thighs
still cold and wet, a soft armor
a home is only one because its door is not always locked