armour thyroid

four hands
all mine
nothing attached to the end of your arms

I'm holding sickness in my heart,
dragging disharmony like a cart

we were once...twice our potential
in half we were sliced by what was essential,
to our very existence
now that it has ceased
I must find a way to land on my feet

another blister on my sole
I cut myself with a blade of grass,
in the barn
my mind is twisted like a yarn

I asked for friendship,
and you spit on my extended arm
damage done,
yet I intended no harm

four hands
all mine
nothing attached to the end,
of your arm