The journey has stretched my arms and legs in different directions, until joints that were never meant to bend backwards, have rubbed, touched each other with ease.
The air vents are plugged,
but my pores... they pour out. Like tears, they run down my snout.
And my bones are poking through my feet, like my toes should poke through the soles of shoes my mother bought me, that I lost long ago.
The mountain I clambered upon ungracefully, stubbed my toes, and tore them from the foot.
A breeze I almost felt, a power I almost possessed, a hand I almost raised to touch the clouds that hung
on my head
like an expensive hat.
And the dirt flosses my teeth getting the spaces out, enveloping me, a letter signed with the first lipstick on my lips, ripped apart,
accidentally.
The queen has hung flowers atop her door, they grew from the ground, they still grow from the ground, flowers in a vase, I almost broke,
accidentally.
When I had closed my eyes,
to sleep.
When I had lost my will,
to be.
The same door opens, like it did so long ago. And I clamber on ripped tendons, clutching my chest, and the life I could gather before the dirt took it too, and I
run.
Calmly reclaiming everything that had happened, to the knob, as it swiftly shuts, and with hands not to different than mine, not my own,
and I
let her
push the bones, back into the skin.