I only have one solitude.
One indulgence, one addiction.
The sound of empty being filled with burning hot opinions.
To escape my own frailty by burning too soft skin with electric water.
Melt my feather bones so my mind can pretend I don’t have to tiptoe in fear of my body flying away.
Too innocent and “light as a feather,”
in such a literal sense.
But when dipped in this electric water I don’t have to rely on my own strength to carry me.
Because my body is weightless,
feathers purposeless,
floating all around my naked, empty body.
I am not fragile, although my bones imitate the birds.
Because this water is leaving charred skin,
but the heat is my indulgence.
And the burns mean I don’t need wings composed of my own bones.