Words From the Fragile Spire

Praise 2 (the Nail in My Wall)

What the fuck?

Who put this nail in my wall?

It's just there,

always, like an angry parent

awaiting the perfect report card.

It's just there,

rusted from the humidity.

I could try to remove it but my hands

would be blood-red from the malpractice,

from removing the suture to my wall's wound.

It's just there,

probably smelling how it looks,

like old metal, like the taste of copper

at the top of the throat before a stroke.

It's just there,

perfectly, infuriatingly out-of-place,

centered neither horizontally nor vertically –

like the perfect insult, loud to attract attention

but quiet to convey its sincerity.

It's just there.

So, I ask again, who put this nail in my wall?

What. The. Fuck.