flesh soaked in sadness:

I am sadness in the flesh that I don't

even own. My legs and arms feel like they

don't belong to me. It's as though I am

but a fraud in my body. As though my

soul escapes my grasp whenever my skin

seems to be too uninhabitable

for its luxurious tastes, with its blood

drained like towels and its bones cracked apart

like crisps. Or when my clouds are emptied of

air, way too swollen with rain until it

begins to pour down on everything in

undrainable amounts. Or when I feel

like a car crash without the seatbelts, heart

speared with window glass, sharp bones protruding

from under my skin like how the roots of

flowering plants cut through mud like razors,

leaving my flesh gashed open for sadness

to seep into and make a home of me.