I once thought my veins were tree roots deep in earth and mulch, far too close to mold and green death to be worth the cost of pumping in this shell of a hollow body
look you don’t understand dissonance until you have to fight with your flesh, the plump pull of your musculature, the ringing discourse of your mind.
There is no battle more hardwon than a match done with your skin and blood as chess pieces.
but maybe you have made lesser mistakes
you carry your fragility like a shield, like a piece of glass you hold in your hands, unashamed and unapologetic when the world would rather you hide your head and weep
you have never been one for cheap tears
(if you cried for every fallacy your eyes would dry up and the water would shrivel from your veins)
funny how it always goes back to the highway of circulatory under your skin, perhaps you have spent too many days on hospital beds where the sharp bite of metal were the only things that made sense, the soft caress of cotton around your wrist,
today breathing feels too much like a chore you have yet to be done.
and how do you explain your rapid breathing when someone touches you from where you can’t see?
the pump of blood pushing the oxygen out of lungs like poison
when your covering is keeping you from escaping, this thin well worn leather, tanned from the hours kept curling in the dark
there is nothing you know better than the touch of fear that hides between the crevice of your blue blood
maybe tomorrow would be a better day