The Splint

I found the photo in a box of old mail,

me at nineteen, looking tragic and pale.

I’m wearing a bandage I bought at the store,

wrapped round a wrist that wasn't even sore.

The white medical tape is starting to peel

in the picture, exposing the lie of the heal.

But it worked for a week; you held my door open,

acting as if I were actually broken.

I remember the itch of the gauze on my hair,

and the way that I liked the weight of your stare.

It’s pathetic to see how I needed the part,

a cheap strip of cotton to cover my heart.