Pick (poetry)

I’m not good enough. Pick.
I’m not smart enough. Pick
I’m not stable enough. Pick
I don’t fit in. Pick.

I’m too much but never enough.
Pick.
Pick.
Pick.

Picks become tears,
Carrion flesh exposing bone.

I see coyotes in shadow.
Too tired to fight, I close my eyes, surrender.

Their high pitched howl reminds me,
I am me.
I have strength of marble,
The warmth of sol,
I don’t fit in, but never needed to.

My eyes open, teeth bared as I growl,
In shadows they stay.
I heal again, but not the same.

Chris Morgan

18/3/18