Too sharp to hug.
When my shoulderblades, mountains themselves,
     The Rockies in that they're sharp, but,
     The Appalachians in that they're worn down.
Tower over the valley of my spine,
The bumpy line that sticks out like rocks,
Across a river, a pathway from one side,
To the other, for children to
Run and skip and jump on.
And my hipbones, on the shore,
Two trees with a concave hammock of a stomach,
In between, with my rabbit hole of a
Belly button, in place so nonchalantly.
Through the woods of extra hairs,
To keep me warm when my body doesn't understand
Why the weight comes off so fast,
Pathways through the indentations,
Between my ribs.

I get lost in this place.
I have been lost here many times.
I'm starting to doubt that I'll ever escape
From this hell of wrong turns, and dead ends,
And trick mazes, and failure, and exhaustion.
But what bothers me the most,
                                                   Is the isolation
Of being lost in a world that
Only I know about,
                To begin with.
Because who's going to find you,
If they don't know the place you're lost in,
                                                 Exists?
If they've never been there,
                           Themselves?

Even if they do find you,
Who's going to hold you,
     If you're too sharp to hug?