I'm whole again
but where cracks lay me free
super glue holds
my pieces stiff
and on the counter a letter opener laughs aloud
about how it used to lay me open,
how the blood
used to spill out of my ankles,
thighs, hips,
shoulders, arms and wrists.
How it tasted like shattered wax and envelope seals.
How when I cried into my pillow at night
I smelled like iron
and sounded like the hiss of a lonely kettle.

If I try to kick these memories away—slice slice—they don't go.
I can't cry anymore,
save for the cages of when I did.
No, nothing really leaves.

Nothing leaves,
especially not the fresh glint of a letter opener
as I toss it into the garbage can.
I know we'll meet again, but for now
a fresh devil laces my mind
with earlier mentioned super glue,
sticky stuff. I can't move.

There are no more notches left to wiggle a creak out of me—
no more sad songs
to rattle off my bones.
Healing isn't the freedom we'd like to imagine,
but a trap that lays in wait
because the free can never be healed.