This Thing They Call Healing, I Call Fighting

Breathing space into the

places

between meat and

bone, too tight for the blood to

flow,

inhospitable tunnels where the memories can’t

penetrate

efforts met with side eye from survival too seasoned for such tricks

Too clever to yield and so the spaces remain

tight,

only room for smoke and

chemicals in the spaces in between

destruction the only familiar succor

welcome in the rigid clay

tranquilizing it, this scrappy wild thing

working it kneading it beneath my palms

building a space for

moonlight

and soft kisses to live


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