you cannot build yourself a new body
each time you count your ribs, taking inventory
of what’s left of your shell—hollowed out marrow to leave room for mottled gold paint
you see improvement, i see invention
hands are not meant to be unhewn, you insist
you soak them in a new mold, take them out still raw and damp, admiring the new shapes of your
you say solution, i say intention
and so, should you continue to peel off your glow
and digest wine-red
to spit out flowers and swallow rubber words
there will be nothing left of you to love anymore.
how unfortunate it is
that the thing you are attempting to fix
is not the thing destroying your insides.
for you see impairment, i see dimension
you cannot build yourself a new soul