i am a graveyard.
headstones grace my fingertips and rest upon my tongue like they never left.
there is a lump in my throat the size of George Washington's skull.
his bones are propelling themselves towards the insides of my throat and down into my stomach,
where they will churn and grind against my nerves until the
steel bravery in my soul is nothing more than
melted wax.
there is a lump in my throat.
old friends and abandoned dreams earn their satisfaction by shearing away the
pointe shoes and piano keys that used to live there.
the metal jazz shoes and steel guitar that dance on my fingertips fight them off like trained assassins,
but even metal can be melted at 2190.6 degrees Fahrenheit.