there is resistance in being human

falling into sleep, i am slipping into valves of myself. the grape vine extensions of my mind twirl round a honey mustard thought. i trip my way through a sentence, gather up words that bend themselves into creases, melt into folds of skin and the under arm of my eyes. secrets push petals, squish vitality and color pelts into the circumference of ground around my feet. i pay lip service to the mirror and take comfort in the pattering of rain outside. you hate it, the grey squalor of a day ruined and i crawl into earthy basins and sleep against the swollen bark of trees. there is resistance in being human, i peel the onion layers until it hurts to feel. the bare porcelain of skin that wrinkles with the weight of water, soaks until bloods runs syrup through exploding vesicles. i don’t mind watching my damp fears, watching dark clocks run my numbers, crunching the fragile bones of my yesterdays. it’s a delight when the sun assaults my iris and sends waves of dilemma to the salt of my brain, some days it’s too much to move the molded blanket, fitting perfectly against my pattern of limbs. fixing myself is a movement, a siren scream, a project that takes every live moment, every breath that gifts my drying throat. i check the lonely passages of my growing tomb, recreate my battles into lifelong. i am avoiding black burning buildings and my spiteful truths