Two weeks ago,
I wore a thimble on my right thumb
To keep the ball point from leeching
Itself unto my skin, palm, and shirt.

I wore a thimble on my right thumb
And ended up with a helmet on my young skull.
I crossed the balltip on my white sheet
And the thimble dented the tip.
The spring shrunk into the inkchamber
Like cave bats carved in,
Repelled by promising sunlight.

The iron spring entwined the vein
Like wide vines around a tropic tree.
Squeezed. Crushed.
The ballpoint no longer bleeds.

Two weeks ago,
I wore a thimble on my right thumb
And ended up with a thimble on my bright mind.