I’m afraid of bee stings and bullets
but I’m more afraid of paper cuts than I am of either
I’m afraid of wounds and words
but perhaps I’m more afraid of the absence of either
You see, I have a tendency to flip through the pages of books if only to mistakenly but secretly intentionally catch a glimpse of the future
So I am prone to these cuts… and I should know by now
Yet, I still fan through them holding my palms out and reading the lines of all the cuts
“haven’t you learned by now” they say
and the truth is, I haven’t, I never do
So I try to pierce into my insides
I try to find the secrets of my organs,
what do my lungs really say when they jump up and down?
what do the trails of my intestines gasp as they pull and push?
what does my heart say when it screams in between each pause?
maybe it is nothing, maybe there is no magic in me
but I doubt this because the love that travels between each of my veins is enough to fill oceans
Sometimes it’s too much I can barely keep my head above it all
My bedroom is both a war zone and a safe haven
All my lost dreams and ambitions sit on bookshelves and hang on the wall
I am reminded each and every day of another reality I could have lived
It plays out in front of me
But instead, I am living this one
My clothing scattered across the floor and the echo of voices demanding that they be put away echoing