carved from rosewood and once heavily polished,
it now crumbled beneath a mountainous tomb
of collector's items,
stained blankets,
abandoned food,
and stuffed animals from a childhood long gone.
an artifact crucified by material obsession
aching to be reborn.

late sunday morning
dining chair, scratched and antique
fossilize the past.

i lay with my head in the sand and my legs in the water
and i put my hand at the base of my neck.
i could feel my heartbeat rising up and sinking down
between the curve of my collarbone and the softness of my skin
fingernails glazed with sand, i came to a full, startling realization that i was alive.
my heart beat.
my nails grew.
my eyelashes dropped like paper from a printer.
i could think. i could breathe, and i could think about breathing far too much and then forget how to do either for a moment.
i was alive- a dry ham sandwich of an existence.
nothing.
debilitating existential awareness.
nothing again when i was gone.
my heart beat.
and i realized with profound horror that it was entirely up to me what to do next.