The wispy birch bark skin on my chest
Reveals layer upon layer of dripping crimson ache.
Pull away a strip,
Then another and another,
And you will find my soft-boiled heart,
With brittle white shell fragments littering the ground at my feet.
*** I wrote this when I was ill and highly anxious. I thought I would stop breathing while sleeping for some reason. I started to panic. Feeling better now. It is not really fun or sweet or sexy. It might be a tad unsettling. Yup. ***
She stood in the middle of a slumbering boneyard,
Furnished with crumbling headstones
And a barren tree with branches like ribs
That held the still and silent air at bay,
Just out of reach of her gasping lungs.
She coughed and coughed,
And she spat crimson and onyx onto the permafrost.
Again. And again…,
Painting the hallowed grounds with unspoken pleas for purchase on the air.
If only she could pull in one single breath
And fill her chest with something
Other than the nothing
And the countless unturned rocks studding her slow-beating heart.