I live in a body

built from mud and sand.

The pain in my neck,

pitifully ploughs,

the stumbling ease,

slapped across my chest.

Buried in the rivers,

that rustle down my throat,

lives a crescent abomination.

Dipped in the death

ketchup taught to be blood.

I don’t know what

living means

if I don’t see the end.

I break the finish line from its roots, 

chipping it like a tooth;

will it still come for me?

If I don’t meet my memories, 

will they even remember me?

I am rehearsing the ritual

that I may die

turning myself inside out

to check for any tares

scanning for signs

that my body may break

before I can make my mind 

a comfortable place to exist.