so i repeat,
"Your heart is beating,
So you must be fine,"
like the thrumming of blood
past weakened bones
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?