There's a pin in my shoulder. It's a metal pin, titanium.
It pulls me down and holds me in place but when I stretch,
It's a minor thing, this wincing. It's a barely there, hardly worthy
mention. But still, when I breathe, I wince.
It's the same thing when I talk. My lungs pinch.
They pinch me like they're trying to hold the words inside....as though...
well, as though they want only the sound, only the essence to escape my throat
and leave the residue of alphabet to coat my throat.
Again, it isn't something that impairs my life. It's just a trickling, trifling afterthought
of discomfort. It's a barely there, hardly worthy mention.
There's something else inside my skin, just like the pin, just like the pinch.
It's a nagging, probing itch, the kind that wakes you up
and won't let you think.
I can scratch it all I want but
it's always there.
Sometimes I forget to scratch, because I think I forget--at times--
what it's like to not itch.
These are trivial things. Barely there, hardly worthy mentions.
But still. They are, simply, the symptoms of living. Of living
the way I chose to live. They are the cigarettes and the street fights
they're the rope burns and needle scars.
They are, like you, residue
of a life I chose with you.