the splinter

i can hurt like a splinter
in the palm of your hand.
a foreign invader who just loves to be
under
your
skin.
your hands
your palms
not holy palmer's kiss any longer,
they feel rough with secrets
and upon closer inspection
i see millions of the little things.
slivers of wood encased in the spiral of your fingerprints.
all tiny reminders,
pinpricks of warning
These hands are not clean! These hands, they betray!
you touch everything
with the tenderness of guilt
afraid it might dissolve under the weight of your
gently mocking fingers.
and i can be the dull ache of one of those
splinters.
i can be the silent pulse of pain when you
dig it out of the wreckage of your hand.

and i'll take a part of you with me when you flick me onto the ground
and return to your wooden ship.