For real? When I reach my hands up into the air, the pastels of peach, olive and yellow bleed into the atmosphere until I seem to almost exhale the pigmentation upon my skin. My bracelet is screwed tight to my wrist, and as my fingers unfurl, pointed towards the sky, it dangles in mid-flight. Moles on my knuckles like printed leopard skin and hairs that stand on end, under the shade of flesh and brick.
An eventful day sought under the talent of a hundred crystal eyes that glide so lucid in all awareness. Skims over the fires in my heart and the sadness in my eyes, bubbles and sprouts- engraved within their minds.
It’s a trust fall with strangers when I don’t know how steep the cliff end is. Hoping and praying that they’ll see me through the tears and that my limbs that are limp by the side of me are carried upon another’s shoulder, as steadfast as oak in the roots of the ground that sees.
Though independence is key, the icy rivers that I must wade through in turmoil are more frozen when faced alone, and I am pulled to a seabed that never existed. Weeds that brush against my feet that never grew and rose and penetrated the earth of purity. A shock to the system. A layer of dust that grows too thick and blocks the canal of air that is supposed to insist, our system to survive. Survival of the fittest.
Except the bacteria and the infection that swallows a man whole is weaker than the body that we carry. Weaker than the cells that reverberate throughout our vessels. But still, dismantles and preys on those that are strong, knocks them from underneath their feet and spits them, churns them up like wasted saliva. Spat like spit like an insect pulled apart by a spider. And the shell is what is left, plasters of mould that spreads, unfinished, unmended and broken.