I remember pleading

wishing to see love, too young to

phrase what the word was,

but that love extends beyond mere

language, it was tears and bloodied lips

bruised eyes, balled fists,

a broken little boy putting up

a perfect boxer’s guard, hands raised

_Why? Why? Why!? _

_ _

_ Doesn’t anyone love me? _

__

__

How I would’ve held him close,

so not even hell should touch him,

“All hands are thorns,

but God’s hands are flowers.”

If I’m careful enough, maybe

I can hold you. If I get jabbed,

it’s fine, I’m used to it.