AN: this is prose, which is something I struggle with because it doesn't rhyme
I walk through the tree museum, an unlived memory just trying to clear its head. Feel myself slipping out of the world where acorns are inclined to crack under my feet; rather, I roll across them clumsily, as though trying to ride a bicycle for the first time. Become indistinguishable from the silken ruin of a dream. Crack open all of my ribs so that the ashen air can tumble in. Let my pores open up for ants to crawl into while I pick at spores like scabs with a stick. Stumble over stones, grab branches to keep upright as the world tilts with the knowledge that they have dates etched into them. Sensing that I have nothing left but the freedom of being trapped in my own head, I start to sing. I'm nervous to join the raspy chorus. Kids walk by talking about the dangers of scorpion stings and I'm hesitant; I don't want them to hear about darker fears. Wish I could change the song for them, that I could sing in a major key like the ground beneath and around me. Find that my voice melts into the leaves with ease and leaves me bound by breezy trance. Find a rock that looks like one from a park in my hometown. Carve my dates into it.
