my knees are still scraped
from the time i fell off my
bike when i was just seven
years old; my arms still
bruised from when i slipped
off the too-tall mountain

my throat is still tight with
tears i refuse to shed; my chest
bursting with emotions i do
not want to acknowledge

my hair is still warm from
having fallen asleep in the
sun; my neck still sore from
the nightmares that had me
tossing and turning all night

my skin is still burned from
long days at the beach; my eyes
still tired from staying up all night
cramming for an exam

my stomach is still a mess of
butterflies, last night's dinner,
and my morning cup of coffee;
my ears still rejoicing at the
sound of freedom

my mouth remains in the shape
of a smile for every bad joke
i've been told and all the
great memories i've shared
with those i love; my hands still
remember the clay i used to
sculpt a new world

my life is still and always
will be a mess of metaphors,
coincidental irony, paradoxes,
and epiphanies that fade
away quicker than i can make
sense of them