Pin Cushion

Neurons tell me:

Needles, are deep into my skin

A torment

to the homeostatic peace

long rested in these bones.

These needles,

are unlike those they stick me with.

It’s unlike those that feed me

the saline liquids

the doctor’s prescribe.

These needles

tear at the seams of everything

of everyone

I’ve long held in my memory;

I’ve loved by my side.

I don’t know what is worse:

to move

evermore

with a pin cushion

rolling in my chest

or know

the day it’s gone

is when I’ve left too.