There's a feeling of stomach hollow, heart heavy no swallowing down pain.
[It drags behind me like a cape]
And suns make salt water burn, searing tender canyons into cheeks, I feel as though I could bleed for weeks on end.
Organs drip anxiety and tumbling downwards I am insanity-manifested, a rampaging sociopath slicing blood pumping muscles to shreds.
[I wonder at how long it'll take to mend]
If hammering nails into bobby-pin heads is what it takes to feel Y-P-P-A-H reverse, why am I not shedding this second skin?
[I am a serpent, a mass of destruction soaked hair, and oxygen deprived tongues]
Concaved ribs from society-pressure filled lungs, is easy to ignore when you can't concentrate on anything when awake, anymore than you can when you're asleep.
[Am I ever really turned on]
It was somewhere around three AM. I was 2,493,972,000 hours old, but I felt as if I could have already been dead. Tongue soaked in gasoline and breath draging fire up my lungs I was ready to scream bloody fucking torture and end it all in one fowl swoop.
[Yet ask me why I'm still here, I dare you]
YOU ARE READING
Incipient
PoetryIN•CIP•I•ENT inˈsipēənt/ adjective •in an initial stage; beginning to happen or develop. •(of a person) developing into a specified type or role.
