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Symphony
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Lying down, offering you my lungs to breathe with. My hands to feel with, my teeth your pearls. My eyes, my skin, my blood are yours. I'm down here, calling you. If only you'd listen.
Once, I envied the Optimists.
Admired them.
Now 'never' seems to fit all too tightly.
I only cry sometimes. Not often.
Not too often.
Only when the anger burns my flesh, makes it curl. Only when the desire to hate you is so cold, so sour that extremities corrode, freeze.
I don't need them, fingers. Not when I can't feel. Kind numbness.
I don't need them, tears. So I offer them to you. Wait. No?
I've never known your acceptance.
Nor your realisation of my horizontal presence. And though you trod upon my stomach once, you've never looked down long.
So unaware of me. Sometimes I doubt I am here at all.
Once, I thought you spoke to me.
But you had only dropped a word
by mistake.
You didn't care to pick it up, and so I kept it.
Ashamed, I swallowed it.
I keep it still, hidden in the marrow of my bones.
Eat them, if you'd like.
I don't need them, bones.
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030516
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