There is nothing
like the buzzing
of your own heart
in your own ears.
Nothing greater
nothing worse
only dissonant
rhythmic changes
as you rise
and fall.
The pound
pound
pound
of pulse
breaking through
innocent
blue veins,
coaxing a response
out of limp,
lifeless wrists.
You scratch,
nothing but swift,
apathetic strokes
while knives
slice pomegranates
too full
too excited
to resist
spilling everything.
One inch
is one state
two miles
of thousands
on the map
but the key
camouflages
the most convenient
escape routes.
If you want to
touch
and feel,
find refuge,
be alive:
fight with the dirty deckhands,
throw your hands up,
let it be.