I
don’t…
That’s all I seem to be,
except when I feel the ice
breaking on my shoulders
melting into waves that take me
out of my cocoon, dancing,
praising each damp step that walks upon me.
The singer in my chest begs my head’s songwriter
to craft a little lie—some sugar, some food coloring, something
to bring the taste buds it’s forgotten back into fruition.
My hands, following the orders of this General
Barking dog, slipping his head out of a collar
deliberately slung too small,
forces face in frozen waters and pries eyes open,
finding mythical forms, shifting,
demanding his breath,
and so he inhales what his lungs (disrespected) cannot manage.
