Man Thought

This is like glass.
A puff of smoke couldn't break you.
You're like boxes of nails
and a hammer made to squish little boy thumbs.
My admiration goes beyond the gentleness
of thorns. Thank you for separating my skin
again, the fine nuances of slicing.

My thought life is like a finger painting.
Little boy, you should have known better.

Here he goes again.
He always goes here.
A soft belly.
A hiding place.
A tangible reign.
This word.