The Guard

I reached for the wool and the heavy thread,

expecting the softness of the bed,

but my thumb felt nothing at all.

I've built a yellow, leather wall,

the color of something old or dead.

It's a ridge that refuses to sting or bleed,

grown from a long and quiet need

to handle the rougher parts of the day.

The nerves have simply moved away.

The skin is the only part that took heed.