This was never a choice. Held up at ballpoint, ink stained Like a tattoo smeared across my veins Like graffiti on a high way No fear of the collision. This is Hemingway’s Old Man With his skin pressed Open Only to return a skeleton of what was. He’s still better for it. The sound of scribbles pieced together Into a beautiful tangle A mess I’ve learned to press Together Into solidarity. A foundation That concedes experience With each purposed step.