with your fingers, separate my lungs
with busy nails, play my strings, trace
words on the skin of my stomach—
so fucking tired—might as well go to ground
with hands, in the trails you left behind,
dug through the back, in the sound, of
daylight trapped, like we sorrowed over, like
hearts hollowed out, once again to busy nails—
how long can I continually reference the broken?
for the whistling, empty organs they are?
for the useless, tossed, arbitrary distractions they are?
let’s find out.