in a chance meeting, fire and ice interlock into a helix,
where they brace each other and fight with ***** fingernails.
behind ribs, a bass reverberates and a bite pierces the vein,
the vein which carries apathy and empathy and life.
a version of a ****** with her knees knocking close and hard,
bruised and grazed will make herself cry with broken glass.
if there is love it will lay under layers, suppressed and bleeding,
and if there is lack it will be worn, and worn out, exhausted.
is it a holy thing to feel? is it a holy thing to not?
                                               eyes lay heavy and water down cheeks,
                                               unprepared for the shove down into feeling,
                                               had you prepared yourself for this,
                                               then the overwhelm of air would not hurt
                                               and burn your lungs so fiercely.
                                               (is it a holy thing to feel?)
                                               (because you have to feel.)
                                               (is it a holy thing to not?)
                                               (because it hurts.)