Fake Bones

Sifting through what I thought were my bones, my structure, to realize they are but plastic formed from molds. Discovering my foundation, when all I ever knew was artificial. The flesh, tendon, muscle is relieved. It finally feels as if it can grasp reality and form. Now, to regrow a thick skin.

Lend Me My Hand (So I Can Help You)

Dry tongue. Sand on calves. Chapped past the lips. Blisters all rub. Itchy between the toes. Sweat between shoulder blades. Head rolling ’round in a opaque hamster ball. Balance leans forward, back, left, right, swirl.

I’d grab your hand. I’d guide you. But my own hand reaches for illusion. I’d seen you, but then you were four, or seven? Lately, too long, my own hand needs my own.

Action

Let me move my hands with abundance of thought, but no words. Let action be my language: subtle flicks of fingers, large sweeping arms. Let letters hold no meaning, even just for a moment, as I dance a dance of action and physical productivity.

One Word

I wish I could make the ideal word. It would mean exactly what I need it to. It would explain all in perfect clarity. A few syllables would mean a whole world. You would understand me. I would understand myself. Mutually, we would know eachother. There would be more than just threads of reference: colours matched a few tones apart. One word would be harmony.

Pickled Contentment

Pickled contentment. Sweet. Sitting in a pantry, waiting a glance. Long lasting. Nutrience. A rounded click. The seal is broken. Fork in jar. Retrieving contentment. Reaching in. Sticky hands. Pleased stomach. Pickled contentment.

To Be Human

To be human. Unity of imperfections. Valour of vulnerability. Embedded innocence, unknowing: impossibility of  entirety of knowledge. The wind still moves your hair. An earthquake can still make you fall. Liquid still coats your eyes. I can still hold your hand.

Flavour: Identity

Identity brews in foreign pots. Maybe one will season it just right. One may be foul. One may curdle. But only one needs to taste just right.

Growth – Words

Let words dwell. Stay within. Blend. Seperate. Form to something new. Feet of the mind planting to substance.

Boxes

An open box. Space. Relaxed.
One small trinket fills a small corner. Slight purpose. Still spacious. Relaxed. Open. Slowly it fills with notes and works in progresses. The box is filled. Tense. Closed. A box of free time crammed with should do’s and must do’s. Becoming will do’s. Space-less. Air is even replaced. To learn to have small boxes, each will a small piece. Process piece by piece. The box remains relaxed. Spacious. But to know, a box will never be empty, but never full.

Memory Foam

Memory foam. Formed in permanent pressure. A shell. Soft. Durable. Small slices tear. Off-white. Beige. Lean on me. Punch me. suffocate me. But don’t cut me. I will be your memory. I will be your comfort.