search for the pieces and duct tape the galaxy back together

the rich copper aftertaste on my tongue
reveals centuries of aching insecurities;
a trove of treasures is locked in my chest
lending to heavy metal toxicity in my veins.

maybe the autopsy will uncover the source
of my anxiety, buried within the soft silver
resting atop my stomach, having weighed
down upon my body, rendering me useless.

until then, i'll spit out copper at midnight,
curling around my broken body,
watching my adrenaline
stores

your species was crafted as elite soldiers,
dropped in a world of unkindess and hate.
you get no pity for chaos, no pity for evil,
but did you have a choice in the matter?

you don your armor in the mountains,
speaking in your harsh goblin tongue.
you're an enemy, a foe, a disease,
but never a friend of the party's

i cut my teeth on metal flowers,
spitting out my memory of you.
blood dribbled from chapped lips,
blemishing this white space of hate.
maybe i'll never move on, but maybe
i'll look at the flora you left me and smile,
the flowers were permanent but you weren't

a necrotic plague claws out of my chest,
dripping its ichor along my burnt skin.
if i drink acid to sooth my racing heart,
then perhaps i will slumber unto eternity.
please hand me a vial and slay this beast,
for i am no one without my lurking demons.
however, i rest easy in the daunting truth
that my demons are dead without me.

termites infest the walls of my childhood home,
burrowing and thriving in the foundation of comfort.
I lost the words to call the exterminator, throwing my
phone against hollow walls in hopes of enacting change.
growing up surrounded by roaches, you learn a few things:
don't eat, there are eggs in your food.
you have to eat, you want to live.

[I gazed upon my scrambled eggs in apprehension,
pondering the ratio of chicken to cockroach.
Shrugging, I took a cold bite and shuddered at the crunch.]

one roach is sign of two million more,
all crawling across your legs,
encapsulating your being.
the difference between roach and man is lost.

termites are a beast I have yet to deal with,
hiding under a bed in hopes that wood frames
don't crash down upon my head and end my misery.
this home of mine is constantly changing,
but I'm a creature of stagnation.

my mother calls me changeling
my father calls me strange
my brother calls me nightmare
but i love them all the same

bury my corpse under five million newspapers,
allowing me to feed the cycle of journalism.
let the ink sink into my skin, turning me into
a story for the ages. i'll fuel online clickbait for
decades, lost in the weight of today's times

i call my representatives on tuesday mornings,
poising myself, watching my words, and begging.
i hold myself before millions upon millions of
corporate dollars, drowning myself in political
knowledge. scrolling through my phones with
apprehension strangling my thoughts and voice.

i'm stitching this life back together
with weak thread and a mission;
i gotta get my thimble, gotta get
my pattern, gotta get a transfusion
for all the blood i etch onto the
tapestry. maybe instead of white
flowers, we'll find some rust instead.

if i give my time for this work,
then maybe it'll extend it back
to me. i'm fourteen-years-old,
too young to die, but too old to
live this intensively. hand me a
needle, let me prick my eyes out
to set a balance that is right in
this universe of ours amongst
seamstresses and seamsters.

her casket floats down the river as i
descend down the staircase of life.
we were never the same, with the
class system separating us by
place of birth. my tax dollars funded
my education, while she lived in
flowerless slums by the swamp

the ocean isn't deep enough to explain
how far i'd dive to help when you struggle;
i've nearly drowned in swimming pools
[with the water filling my nose and suffo--]
but i'd repeat it every day for your safety.

we sat beneath the dying stars on a tuesday night;
the universe continued its monotonous spin as we
pointed out the broken constellations that paint our
bedtime imaginations, leaving us awake with chaos.

i pleaded with you to stay home from the war, kissing
your bleeding lips and tugging at your shirt, but you
combed spindly fingers through my hair and murmured
that the stars needed soldiers; "i'm able enough to go."

i cling to my childhood, but i watch as you fight monsters
with a grenade clenched between your cracked teeth.
you come home on tuesdays, back to our bed, but
you leave on thursday morning, leaving red stains.

perhaps ursa major needed someone adept at love,
or maybe she needed my stolen heart to win the war,
but until you come home, i'll search for the pieces and
maybe we can duct tape the galaxy back together.