this year my scars spread like wild roots, scraping along my bones and sometimes knuckling through
my mane turned an old mirror grey
but I’m no horse, I’m a useless pony
interventionist friends with red lips making shapes through the mist of red wine
always makes me feel better
dinners of soft cheese on stale oat cakes
always makes me feel better
and the clumsy nurturing hands of a stranger
always makes me feel better