everything, is coming up and out of my eyes.
staining the collar of a white shirt so no one knows really. slipping out of lids that are closed because it’s easier not to look when i’m doing this.
weight, like palms pressing flat defenseless lungs, sinks itself into my sternum — i am dying, peeling from the inside, walls papered 1970’s
because the woman with patterns in her fists, blood in her face, anger on her tongue screeching octaves, wants out of the time warp. wants to stop building backwards, towards unfinished business and ideas that used to keep her.
renovation, requires unconditional patience.
i wish someone told me about sacrifice before i asked, “i wonder what it’s like to die?”