Your sharp edges were not your fault
But that didn’t stop you cutting us with them;
Your sting–more bee than wasp,
An attack of self-evisceration–
Pulling out your own entrails even as you wounded us;
I hung back, afraid of the anaphylactic shock of you.
I pried apart the shells of my ribs for you and let you into my soft oyster center
But these pearls were never intended to be bullets for you to shoot me with.