I am not a skeleton key.
I do not fit everywhere you see.
Door locks, deadbolts, gates and vaults;
Not all of these are meant for me.
But…years of (ab)use has corroded my shape,
Barely held together with some sticky-tape.
And while I seem to open all with my form,
I can’t click into my keyhole of norm.
I am not a skeleton key.
I cannot fit where you’d like me to be.
And now, sitting on my locksmith’s shelf,
I am trying to, once again, become myself.
Inky Impressions 