{spine} a poem

Everytime I look at you,

I feel fireworks in my chest.

Yeah, they burn.

Like acid that sits in my stomach.

Yeah, it burns?

You words are a volcanic eruption,

and I’m shaking.

Yes, it burns.

But it doesn’t taste like spice,

not like “safe,”

and I’m not my favorite me

when your words twist mine.  

No.

Hazard lights.

You are the lava floor,

and still I dip my toes in

like I’m inclined to swim.  

I think I’ve forgotten

the standards I’ve written,

because I wanna feel somethin,’

but not like incerneration.

No more “i’m alone” tears,

but I’d like to keep my blood tissues.  

Keep my frame of bones,

not as your frame of reference

in the locker room.

Keep my peace of mind,

not to hear you call me “mine.”

Land mine.

Step on me, I dare you.

Then you can burn too,

just as I’ve done,

holes through the sheets,

my room is cooled down,

and if I think of clean water

like a clean conscience,

I might feel “safe”

sliding down my spine like ice.

I may have burned,

but I still have a spine.

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