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, just a cart full of splinters and nails and warped planks

interventionist friends with blushing lips making shapes​ through the mist of red wine 

dinners of soft cheese on water crackers and to bed

and the clumsy hands of a stranger

always makes me feel better