Sharp

In the back of the drawer, past the dried-up rouge,

I found the orange plastic bottle she saved.

It wasn't for heart pills or something to soothe

the way her hands had started to behave.

It was full of needles, a silver heap,

loose and rattling against the clouded wall.

The plastic was scratched where the points would sleep,

a frantic, metallic sort of scrawl.

None of them had thread. They were just rusted,

stripped of their purpose but kept in the dark.

A collection of points that couldn't be trusted

to mend a single thing, or leave a clean mark.