in aeternum

so i repeat, 
"Your heart is beating, 
So you must be fine,"

like the thrumming of blood
past weakened bones
means anything

could define anything

because "okay" is a spectrum. 
it's feeling like i'm going to tip over, 
bash my head on the neat, clean tile, 
crack my skull because maybe then
people would "understand what i was thinking,"
like i'm a book for someone to flip open and read
discard and burn

but there's also the good days, 
where i'm still hollow and carved-out inside, 
worn-out verses and old poetry, 
words floating on an endless conveyor belt, 
thick fog draped over my shoulders, 
if i can't see them they can't see me

and i know i should worry about this
worry like someone thinks about
whether or not they left the stove on this morning

but i can't

because why would i worry about something breaking
when i know i can't fix it?

The End

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