Friendly Fire.

I’ll sculpt with bitterness

in stone, in clay

in my clumsy cynicism

the ragged figure of a young man

I’ll craft the sloven years

with nothing refined

or smoothed over

rough around the edges

It’d be the embodiment of

a strange shyness

swallowed mouthfuls of hope

and perceived cadging

That reminder is ugly and this statue is uglier

such a proud, lonely pose

shrugging away from

any hands that ever cared

I’ll leave my tools in his side

and step back to look it over

“A real piece of work”

That’s what my father would say

“Of course I was,” I’ll laugh

But I’d abhor the sight of it

and cast my work in metal

finished at last

He has the shell I’ve always desired

this bullet proof self-portrait

and I think I almost admire it

so much I avert his bronze stare

I want that cold skin

As I remove my palms from the kiln

patch the real wounds I’ve obtained

in kinder cloth

I wonder thoughtlessly

if that poor soul

is ever jealous

of my warmth

“I don’t care,” I say aloud

Turn off the lights and retire

leave my shadow to stand

the silhouette of my stillness

but beneath my breath

find that affirmation leave me

thinking of his lifeless eyes

my eyes, too

“But I do care,” I say softly,

to no one but myself,

an empty room, and my sculpture,

“God, it hurts.”