The Secret Thorn

My secret thorn
You are my secret thorn
You pick my finger
Drawing blood
Pain runs between my joints 
My spine is crushed
Crackling like cellophane
Crunching snow beneath my feet
I see my breath
The wind whips leaves
Fallen and dry
Rain smudged windows
At midnight
Thick blobs of paint like icing
Impasto spreading on canvas
Black patent Mary-Jane's
With a shiny new buckle
And my little girl's socks
The bonnet and dress you made me
Stained in red
And you had to throw it away
Am I made this way?
Or do I grow into it? 
Wise beyond my years


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