My skin has been prisoned in artificial light
only self-created barriers holding me back.
I am able to stare at my rusted, lined, uniform.
Clothing me from my broad shoulders, to my suffering ankles.

I'm okay.
Those two words act as a life pursuit.
Those two words are repeated in every lobe of my brain
frontal, parietal, occipital, and temporal.
It's the poem they think I am breathing,
not the poem that defines me.