I am a small thing. I am delicate and
the arrangement of my heart inside of my ribs
is precarious at best. I am not a durable lover,
I am weaker than quail bones you snap apart at dinner,
softer than the breast meat you chew and chew and chew.
I never asked you to be gentle, I only asked you to be tender.
Now my bones are splintered and my smallness has swollen
beyond the support of these seams I’ve stitched into my broken places
and you are a cold wind howling through my hollow ribs.