I am marrow and carbon and the blues.
There’s a poem in me somewhere.
[Nothing to find tucked in the crease of my elbow or behind my ears where I secure overgrown bangs from falling into my eyes or even the soft dip of my lower back tailor-made for tenderness. I have searched for it on the backs of my eyelids, the fleshy interior side of my lower lip, a manhunt for words engraved under my nail beds.]
I am fiber and plasma and the scattered aftermath of a supernova.
I am a reservoir for water and heartache and less blood than you’d think. I used to think we were mostly blood. I looked it up and we’re not. We’re only 7% of it. This is why blood is sacred.
Beyond half-functioning organs, a bad spine, beyond birthmarks and scars from a childhood of anger–
[somewhere, invisible to the naked eye, a poem shifts in its sleep.]