Something burned by a fresh match
I ache, my head aches, my heart aches, my feet ache.
I stretch, and a pop and a spreading
Warmth where I don't want it
But it is bone and tendon and muscle and skin
Layers of comfort almost as thin
As the lightning bolts that hold my scars together.
I am no glow stick, I am no heat pad, but
I am cracked, and popped and feel bad
I feel like metal, hot, misshapen
A coil of papers, folded and bent in.
Warmth, but bad, touches on darker skin. Skin that was gone at one point, a section of body where bone met air and flesh was stretched to accommodate it.
Bones cry blood, and they cry easily. It takes a moment, like it does with me. In the solace of skin, red builds up. And under bandages overflows its cup. Red, red, unquenchable red. Drenches and drinks and slowly embeds.
Peel back the curtain, hold back the meds
Don't yet let doctor make all of his mends.
Good morning, good night, what is the time?
Nothing exists outside of those eyes
Brimming with red, and dried streak-staining eyes
I'll never forget the way that it cries.
