four years of jittery hands and white knuckles
being alone and faceless and constantly bound
in my crutches, like a child with weak hips
comforted by that firmness of man-made metal,
making my hands sweat and smell like copper
what was i waiting for all that time?
a savior? a hero. in all likelihood, yes.
and realizing again and again that strength only comes from within
and the external world only chips and scrapes at you
and leaves you feeling appreciated and only needier for it
less yourself and looking to others all the more
i have the impulse to follow the same habitual routine
i've followed every night
but i have nothing left to say
i'm too tired to make conversation,
too tired to apologize again
and it would only feel like rough-grained wood
sliding the lining of my intestines
sour and grating and unreal
i just want to feel myself rise up from my body
and hover in nothingness
for one more night.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
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