we are taught
that you can't be sharp.
i'm a sharp person -
it's the way i beat
and the way i dance.
we are taught to round out
the corners that might catch
a person unawares, like
that one point of the banister
that catches your side every time,
leaves you with the faint outline of pain.
but that's not what i am -
i am insomnia evenings
where my feet wear patterns into the floor
and the trees are barren from winter
so get used to early-morning teas
and wood against rough knuckles
echoing in the empty kitchen,
like we're laughing to ourselves
wouldn't surprise me
and so i curve and carve my skin
into something that fits better,
stretching to stand
and unfolding my joints.
i am sharp and jagged
and i dare you to touch me.