This body’s falling apart.
My bones are separating at the joints, pressing into my flesh, coming through.
My ribcage is cracking open sending splintering shards through my veins,
revealing a heart beating out of time.
Speeding up,
sending my blood racing through my body, down to my toes, up to my head.
Slowing down,
letting its beats reverberate through my hollow abdomen.
My eyes float in my skull
scanning, trying to find something to focus on, sending blank images back to my brain.
My lungs are dragging air down into them,
forcing it back up.
They expand and shrink,
compress and release.
I've forgotten the sound of my voice,
surprised as it stumbles out over the arid landscape of my tongue;
it is weak and damaged from disuse.
The space in between my bones is filled with what could have been—the fragmented fantasies desperately pieced together.
My muscles are dry, tight, and useless.
I am full of could have beens.
Brimming with retrospect.
My skin is stretched tight,
holding back every memory of every moment wasted—forgotten only to be remembered and regretted. My limbs are too heavy for me to support.
I am dragged down by them.
I am made immobile.
I am the sum of all these parts,
and it is not enough.