scratches on my neck
Scratches on my neck, tracking that tiny death to the left of my tonsils. They’d always say keep your head up after a sprint, don’t fold inwards, open the airways, breathe and let it in and out. And when I look up, I want to trace over the rolling hills that keep it all afloat, unobscured eyes demanding to stay open. Tight lids and tight lips and tight tones are told to be wary of those who preach to choirs and choruses under the bright lights of sterile hospitals. Liberal labs that will spell it out in 78 pages of paywalled journals.
Scratch my neck, or don’t. Trace the rhythm, the ins and outs, the river of my words swallowed down. Reach for it, before the nails are filed down. A surgical silence trying to feel what it means to exist,, trying to give those stuck songs a skinned soul to claw up and out of the canyon along my collared and laced lifeline.
