Hupp’s poem feels like watching someone cradle their own unfinished thoughts, unsure whether to comfort them or apologise for them.

The broken limbs and “loose bones” echo the way ideas often arrive in pieces, trembling, asking to be held together.

There is a quiet heartbreak in the poet’s refusal to throw any of them away, as if each fragment carried a pulse.

It mirrors the tenderness we feel toward the parts of ourselves that never quite formed as we hoped.

The horror imagery becomes strangely tender a portrait of the fear that what we create will never match what we long to say.

Yet the poem insists that even the flawed and the malformed can take root, can bloom in unexpected ways.

The poet’s devotion to these scraps feels deeply human, a kind of stubborn love for what is imperfect but ours.

We sense the loneliness of wanting to write something true, and the courage of staying with the struggle.

The “malformation” that slouches into the poet’s heart becomes a symbol of every fragile attempt we’ve ever cherished.

In the end, the poem reminds us that creation is an act of care staying with what is wounded until it finds its breath.