how to save a poet's life

when our metal collided, forming a beautiful mess of flames and exchanged paint, they dragged my unrecognizable hunk of meat, fire still dancing on my skin, to a blinding, sterilized building smelling of alcohol and copper usually reserved for bullets in the chest and praying mothers. they pricked my arms and legs and chest and everywhere in between. never was there a moment where cool palms were not smoothing down the few strands of hair still attached to my scalp. howls never failed to fill the night- every night- and my father joined the wolf pack once they whispered "we have some bad news." their methods had failed to see my body perfect again. but what they didn't know is that instead of dripping recycled blood down the tubes jammed in the holes decorating my skin, they should have poured words in to my running river veins.

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