Shackles
The bonds attach themselves to my wrist,
Laying down their marks in my pale skin.
Another numerical value on the list,
Another prisoner, victim of disease.
"This won't hurt a bit,
Broken as you are." they say.
"Don't worry about the fit,
Our chains come in all sizes."
I hope for second chances,
Lying prone on the doctor's table.
I pretend I don't see the sideways glances,
Again, the bond bites my arm.
My name,
My birthday,
And my disease,
Like I can't remember these things myself.
They say the band is weightless,
Just a flimsy piece of paper,
But nothing weighs less than kindness,
And this bracelet will never weigh less than what it breeds.
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