I’ll Make Dinner Tonight

I got myself

tangled

in the longest

curtain.

Arms, wrists, ankles

twisted in burlap fabric

stained blue.

I let myself

hang limp

and snapped

at angles

akimbo.

Someone once told

me that friction

gives life

to hollow

spaces,

as a joke.

If I try to laugh

it seems I’m too

much flirting

with my potential

for unraveling

into the habitat

of spaces unkempt,

overgrown.

If it’s consistent,

the suspension

of pain,

does it disappear?

At least,

it’s the bones

that break in

their final

defense

of my chest.

Splintered, stale,

good for flavoring.