The pushpin box tumbles from my grasp
Clatters open on the hard boards
Sharp tacks skittering into corners.
The main heap of pointy ends
Between the door and my desk.
I leave them, not sure why until —
You barge in, demanding –
“What are you doing now? Why? I need you to – Ow!”
A tack stops your stride.
And … I am not sorry. I am Not sorry. I Am not.
I used to be sorry for everything undone,
Even my thoughts, tumbling like tacks,
sharp edges under the surface of us.
I am not sorry now.
“I love words. I love the shape and taste of them. I find refuge in words and stories. I don’t always get it ‘right,’ but I write anyway. It’s in my bones.” – the writer