Poorly Made

I was born with a soul

splintered between the above

and below

as if the blueprint lacked cohesion,

never marrying the whole.

Crooked be the frame,

only good for load-bearing shame,

nails driven rusted, sideways,

only the hammerer to blame.

I let the world lathe my edges,

until I was sanded smooth "enough"

those who wanted to reach out and touch

only left me hollow;

a cabinet no one dares to open,

shelves empty, never stocked with love.

They say measure twice

cut once

so why don't I fit

ramshackle,

rustic,

raw,

... can anyone really

love

the sawdust?

I am it.