Sore

This beat body is a bruised brick factory
weighed down by history and fat smokestacks.
Too many angles snag,
hysteria pools in the stairwell,
as my mouth got away
& I laughed away all my lightness.


Fenceposts
Everything is getting away,
all of the fenceposts have turned to ash
gray floats boundless in the air
& every breath is a lungful of the uncontrolled
what happens when a body can't own up to its actions?
The body breaks and ideas fall birthless from the teeth
a cold brain runs through each miscarriage frame-by-frame
hoping a time-lapse might unlock the unthinkable
that it could find answers
about how to put fire in reverse
and stop the lightning before our bones turn to glass.
And these footholds are actually only shaped like wounds
in the ground my nails scraped together.
I feel like my arms got stole in the middle of a cartwheel
and my skull is being filled with the earth
land that don't mean what it used to;
all of the fenceposts have turned to ash.