Life is like a sharp stick, untimely ripped from the home of it’s oak branches. All it takes is a particularly strong gust of wind, or perhaps a child in search of a wooden staff on a walk. The causation is irrelevant. It doesn’t sway the abrupt nature of life.

The twinge from the snap of the branch leaves a jagged end — like a pinprick. The other side is blunt, abraded by the battle of the elements, which is the end held close to the heart. Heavily guarded by cages of ribs, pillowy lungs. Threatened by the barbed exterior that points to the world.

Perhaps one day in the future, somebody will wear it down. Scrapes and cuts could plaster their body, yet with every graze of their skin, the blade will dull.

Time will continue to pass.

Gradually, it will erode. Gently, even. The jabs will turn to caresses, the grazes will turn to strokes. And only when I’m ready, my dull end will emerge from it’s decade long hibernation, and burrow into their scarred skin forevermore.