My brain and my body are best friends, you see.
My frantic thoughts slow to resuscitate my lungs should they cease to breathe;
then my trembling fingers take my razor sharp words and put them to sheath.
My chapped lips, bleeding and lacerated, sew themselves up
to hold back the torrent of mumbling, jumbling mess that pours like wine from behind my teeth.
They will walk hand in hand, heels clacking on broken pavement,
crushing the buds that have shoved triumphantly through.
But, please, don’t let their berry lips and pinched cheeks fool you,
for they are anything but innocent.
Most days, when they have nothing to them but bone and sinew,
blood and flesh,
they simply sit in cacophonous silence, daydreaming about any rescue.
Any helicopter pilot that could see their message in the sand
right before the waves crash over and they are swept away:
the words, my brain, and my body.