Don’t lean on me
My bones are not pillars of my temple
But cave too soon, crumble
Shatter even. Leaving only
A ribcage, that is all
Don’t lean on me
My shoulders are not Atlas’, my
Back would not bear your
Weight, even a gram.
Only my ribcage is iron
Don’t lean over me
My skin slips and crawls from your
Shadow or the threat of air
Shared in our space. I am
A shrinking anenemone
Don’t count on me
My ribs are a bulwark of iron, my
Only fortress around the quiver
Of my heart, protective
But covered in bars
Don’t caress me
My hand will feel older fingers, long
Gone and invisible, a burn
Now healed over
A bitter dead scar
Don’t lean on me
I am not your superglue, your healer
I cannot fix my own abused soul
Nor drive my own nightmares
From my mind’s corral
Do not claim me
My skin is not yours, my self, my soul
I could not be owned at ten, freedom
Is my Icarus, my feathered arm
I will not approach the sun.
_
Rebekah Tysoe lives in New Zealand but is preparing for her first solo trip overseas. She longs to
be owned by a cat and make her living writing novels for children, and loves collecting books of all
shapes and sizes. Her favorite things to read are fairy tales and murder mysteries.