sweating blood
i prune my edges, polishing, jaded,
a dreadful plunge to get it all over with, for the most part,
skipping rocks more than the usual,
scrapes are avoidable but not entirely sure if i want to,
then again, i gather more,
on a pile, on a line,
turning into shears, i make a note to sharpen-
the question dawns:
to prick or not to prick
midnight reaches out with spider-hands eager for web ornaments,
the mattress familiar with my weight,
i change onto fabric in the shade of drained.
the running tracks in my brain go for miles still,
mill all i've done but end up tinkering with the scale;
it'd suffice but it could've been greater, better, finer,
it seeps beneath, to the marrow and synapses, this lethargy
the hunger remains half-filled,
choose more words in the comparative degree.
the skyline caught in a timelapse both glistening and unlit,
i remain lying down unwavering yet fazed,
the tiredness lies next to me, i push it off repeatedly,
instantly crawling back,
there's space for one more.
i file my edges, jaded,
pinching closer is an old, tired out reflex,
sagging shoulders, my frailness comes on the surface,
i set my eyes for more anyway,
it's quick to label it as greed,
but my mother praised my ambitiousness as a child,
and my teacher said she knew my drive would take me places far from this dead-end town,
the bluntness reveals its name.
Cover Photo by cottonbro.