Stuck
The wound stays wet long after
Blood clots and scars form.
We build temples from shrapnel,
Kneel at altars of cracked glass.
Some are driven to lick the blade's edge,
To taste that familiar copper.
They allow ghosts to twist through their fingers,
Like worry beads made of teeth.
Salvation arrives in fractures;
A neighbor's dish left at the door.
Strangers stitching ladders,
From their own unraveled threads.
Healing's not the scar but the tremor.
That moment when your hand forgets its armor,
And reaches, bare toward another open palm.
Humanity blooms in this simple touch.
