Screwed (and Tattooed)

Jesus was nailed
but I’m screwed to my cross.

Screws have threads that bite
and hold the bone.  
Stripped now are the heads;
the metal has become my own.                   

Fixated on primitive defenses,
body confused, knows not what it needs.
Too weak to ever conquer metal and plastic,
on the bone itself, it feeds.

Corrosion stains surrounding tissue black
while monocyte soldiers fight
to turn perceived enemies back.

Joints that are healthy are rarely even felt
but ache and complain miserably
when they begin to grind and melt.

A quagmire,
no solid place to bear the load.
The weight of a life lived well;
I’m screwed, trying to walk this slippery, shifting road.

Red rose was planted to cover the spot
an attempt to grow beauty, to hide the rot.
But beauty existed before the petals,
before the scars and screws;
before the thorns and metals.