and what's the point of having scars
when the memory of the injury fades to dark corners in unopened drawers
and the sensation of fingers feels right atop plump skin with forever damaged nerves
and i still think of bodies not as big as his
face muddled in dark red and purple and black
making me be crimson and feel like i should want no eyes to see any bodies at all
what is the tether keeping my body from every corner of everywhere and why do i not know her birthday
or her parents' names
or the make of the car she's had forever
but i need the flashes of her eyes, same color as always
and the lines from her mouth corners that reach to the top of her nostrils, oh so slowly multiplying with the age i force upon her
as she holds the same deeply thickened strings in her palms
the ones i don't mean to tug as i'm feeling my scars
closing my eyes to a different starting line at a different race, even if all the trees and turns stay the same
even if the crash was later rather than sooner
it stays as flames and cuts and glass on floors unkept by drifters
floors that were sparkling ballrooms and photo booths and rooms before happenings, albeit the filth and glare
messages in every atom of every wall that has ever consumed me for worse
the ceilings content as white noise
and it's all like holding unnerving gallons of weight with fingers once broken
or brushing feathers against raised, once torn skin
or staring into the eyes of a face that loses its blur as i expel cords i wish were thralls in nature, only kings beneath the folds of my throat, every moment waiting for their taste of power
dripping from my mouth and fingertips and ruiner of worlds whenever my body needs reminding
that i am never in control of the will to lay wastes and overindulge in the consequences of short-lived power
and i will never stop putting makeup on the curves of my brain, rotting it so
just to revisit wars tainted pink with age
just to feel all the ways bad could have silver linings of perfect
just to be anywhere but the odd odored peace that rests in my rapture
ignoring all paths to candy castle in a maze with glass walls
because despite holding the sick in your middle while your teeth blinds babies and your voice cures cancer, it's still there after all the miracle tonics with faded oh-we're-well-past-that expiry dates
it's ever so fresh with age
and it's still there