Sometimes my body feels like a broken promise. Sometimes my bones ache with age. The ferocity of blood, the violence of breathing; it can be too much to take.
There is nothing easy about this skin. I teach myself to blink rushing rivers; to let my lashes roar like rolling rapids. Use my arms for breaking, sometimes holding — everything makes the muscles burn — I mean them both equally. I mean them both hard.
The riot of my mouth.
The riot of my mind.
Sometimes I take myself apart. Separating this from that. Renaming it all. Letting it ring in my ears. What am I? What am I? It sounds like music.
It sounds like space.