there is a heaviness in happiness, a distinct copper taste of
being acutely aware that you are alive and suddenly
your body is fallible and important and precious and suddenly
the universe has a power over you, it has
something to take away.
i workout now and hate myself for the first few minutes, a distinct copper taste of
unhealthiness, being acutely aware that i am alive and bones and (trembling) muscle and
soft shell organs, weak. scar tissue is fibrous and stronger than skin and
if i wrote a book, would anyone
read it, fact check it? would a private investigator knock on my door to count the
freckles i claim sprinkle her shoulders.
poems are easier because no one cares if