I am bone wrapped in skin.
With miles and miles and miles of veins.
And the throbbing inside of those veins are every feeling that connects me to this earth.
Like ivy, they span the roads of this world.
Grounding their presence into the soil, up the skyscrapers, down beneath the tree roots.
Gritting their branching against constant molestation of company.
My mind is young and sweet, softer than silk and unwrinkled by time but it can unravel to drap all there is.
It is the flooring beneath my feet, the grass on which I walk, the pigmentation of a poppy it is calm and ancient.
It is more than mine.
Inside my skin, and bones, and miles and miles and miles of veins my body knows the process to life.
We all do.
Before now our first lovers slept outside, their hair matted with the earth and bodies intertwined for survival; for the future that is me.
However; a drop of my consciousness can kneed one’s heart into stiff retirement.
My viens can leach the nutrients from this earth and it’s molesters.
What are we to be so godly? To fabricate our dreams?
To move from sleeping beneath the stars to under falsely illuminated and meticulously crafted caves.
We are human.
And to be human is to be powerfully and vulnerably exposed.