the most precious things in life are made of glass.

my chest is full of tar, it spreads to my fingers, it spreads to my nose, and my throat hisses a desperate song.

and i am a spitfire, a whirlwind, a fox. i am a radio that can't be turned off.

i am a mountain that has withstood hurricanes, but now i am crumbling under the weight of our bones

i feel the rain like anasthesia in my veins, i lie on the ground and feel the earth spin around.

the hands that feed me are tied together at the wrist with a thick band of silk, the ends of which bleed into the barren ground below our feet, the barren ground we both ignore.

i'm stuck between my elders and the life of the unborn, with no past or present or future of my own.