I was a child made of brass tacks and brass knuckles,
handfuls of day-filled pockets of accumulated junk.
It was alright.
Until I grew up.
You came out of the muck
like a juniper out of Nevada,
grew from veins on the cool underside
of my arms.
Please don't tell anyone
my secrets.
This bowl of shit
isn't the playground that it used to be.
I leave sandwiches
at the bottom of my backpack
and forget to brush my teeth.
Shit ain't cute no more.
But your juniper bent backward and
said I made more sense than the sun,
and I grinned like all of Earth.
But now let me smile with
chipped-rock teeth.
Share shade with a desert.
Let my shame sit
with its own reflection,
shoulders a crumpled mess,
but breathing.
This stress
is not meant
to break your
bough.
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