When we are made of theories –
Of perhaps-facts reluctantly proposed
How do we keep sighs in our lungs?
How do we avoid being exposed?

I feel the numbers beneath my skin,
The reasons why this goes here
How do I tell them they’re wrong –
That I’m bound to disappear?

When we are letters on parchment –
Punctuation and vowels and ink,
I can’t help but see all the blood as an elixir –
As a wine for the darkness to drink

My bones break beneath formulas –
A sea of chalk dust and coffee gone cold
Their fingers point to my kneecaps
“You are young.” “But I am old.”

Worried and dancing with needles,
Into my veins they plunge their lies.
I am wrong. Broken. Incoherent.
If only they’d look in my eyes