What Is It In These

I'm not sure if this is any good? It feels forced. Then again, I can't write anymore, and yeah. Mm.

What is it in these, our fingers, that hold us down?

Where was it written on my skin
that I was supposed to carve and curl into

myself when I could not

curve into the curve of someone else?

In the spot on my back, in the freckle on my

elbow? In the tiny tiny lines of almost-green

in my eyes?

It's not written on me anywhere, or in me anywhere, but

the constant scripture that's seared into my

every muscle, ligament, tissue, cell

is enough to find its way into the nerves in my

fingers and the nerves in my head

and I'm preaching through scars

to my silent bedroom.

There are more music boxes to find,

to wind up, to let play until the melody

has replaced all other thoughts I have, until

the tune is so familiar I can't focus on

it and still somehow it's all

I have in my head, and it becomes the most patient pink noise

that's so much paler and so much

safer than the steely gray of beforehand.

What is it, in my fingers, that is possessed with red?

Gray?

Ashen, or purple, bruised an ugly

green, blood-shot or pale or shadowed into the

color of the half-sea when I look in the mirror.

What is it, and where, and can I find colors that are

kinder to me than these are; than I am?

What is it in these, my fingers, that cannot hold

me down enough to the ground

I can only find when I'm too high above to land on it?

Why can't I write anymore?

I don't want to ever get used to it.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

it seems like that often...but then the bruises will go away, and the fingers will move once again.