Ball of Nails

By Lauren Nagy, Literary Editor

A rumor’s like a ball of nails,

Of rusty nails,

Everywhere it rolls,

Everything it touches

Is impaled.

 

It doesn’t notice whom it distresses,

Just rolling recklessly

Over and over again,

Tearing skin, drawing blood,

Never cleaning up its messes.

 

And not even a tetanus shot

Can stop the cheeks burning hot,

The unsettling smiles and whispers,

The bleeding flesh,

Left alone to rot.