I am slippery,
caught, covered in blood,
mud, and bruises.
A fruit fallen from the branch,
turning sour and moldy on the ground,
not filling anyone's hunger.

I am putting needles in my infections
and affections:
a million filled balloons floating away
now a million shards of soft shrapnel.

I am picking up the wreckage:
my rotting flesh from the ground,
metal sound-- all skinny and gray
and my endless array of memories on re-play.