Leaky

 

I wonder:

what’s it like

to leak?

 

I don’t leak.

I don’t have an open wound,

susceptible to foreign

objects—

unwanted objects.

 

Nothing penetrates me.

 

Impenetrable—

the credo of the male species.

 

What’s it like to walk through

this world with a hole that

can bleed without

provocation?

 

What’s it like,

this sore that

opens and closes

(but never entirely shuts)

in both ecstasy and in suffering?

 

How strong you must be

to walk out your door

each morning.

 

 

 

 

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