Sweat is spun in rows across his chest,
Like ribbon it weaves a pattern.
Down his arms and up to his neck
He quivers
Leftover adrenaline that he cannot use.
Eyes are rounded by a blue
Although the core is green
With eyelashes a daring black.
A single word is written horizontally
Atop the base of his backbone
He is part of a story you see.
Born from an author’s chest wound,
He started as a scrap of paper stuck into a straw,
And this became his spine.
His ribcage was a book,
A journal really,
Printed over and covered in pine trees,
His skin now smells like sap.
His heart,
Is one half
Of the authors
Born
From blood it seems.
Far from a fairy tale.