calm

For all intents –

I’m purposeless, wandering. Let’s remove aimless pretense to describe this lazy limbo year, fucked and hopeless. The teenage cancer I knew a decade ago has grown six feet and sits low on your spine, reaching for the grey matter gold, waiting to choke the saviors in your brain with fingers in your mouth. Tilt back your head so I can feel something, navigate to the stem that pulls your strings. The ground is a calm I can’t touch, so I dig my nails into your skin and pull myself up a few inches until my head clears the fog. I’ll balance on fleshy footholds until decay drops me from my pedestal