I am a sound today,
an inaudible gentle drop of a midsummer dream.
I have a scarred arm,
An ear so small,
obnoxious ways of survival.
I evolve each day, still melting on toes.
Funeral baths peeling my cold skin.
There is abnormality happening on Thursdays,
and a prayer going on inside my head on Sundays.
I know too much on Mondays and
I become a sinner on Saturdays.
Look, I may slip monthly,
slipping almost like a surreal fall
with patches and band-aids sewed to the body.
I fail to be a silver moon
A hollow void that sits on my lap,
nonchalantly bleeding songs of despair.
I am all at once,
an elastic curve of black fragility.