On Tuesday I punched my fist into the nettles at the bottom of our garden.

My whole arm lit up with fire,

and I screamed through clenched teeth

determined to see if the poison would do anything beyond hurt.

See, I’m an expert at cradling wounds out of sight.

My pockets are full of scars

my handbag crammed with bruises

and you can hear the piece inside me rattle if you shake hard enough.

I’ve been broken so long

the edges are too worn to fit back together again.

Instead I collected them like sea glass in jars along the windowsills,

and when the sun rises

they shimmer in every colour you can imagine.

They are still beautiful to look at.

Written For The Daily Prompt: Prickle