It would be of no good to speak these things to you.
In what way I was still returned to the ground
Even beneath it, intact with my puerile need to repeat
my—self and my mistakes.
Who would not climb the wall for
a peer over the edge?
The cautionary tale is for the fool’s errand,
And I am no fool.
I am as my hands are,
Twisting in on themselves
And bursting at the seams.
I can——not contain the ache for
sensation.
Just as I could not contain the
grief as I fell.
Nor the agony as I
crawled my way back.
IT’S. HAPPENING. TO. EVERY. BODY.









