Pulled through life by whatever has a grip on my throat, whatever has its fingertips hooked behind my vocal cords, I cannot allow my voice to go silent so I walk 

I am not fragile I just break very easily, magma that I am continually cooled on the crust but so quick on the draw, quick to rearrange, quick to tectonic reaction 

My favorite part of the body is the crook of the elbow where a flex provides no muscle or fat merely the crease of a vein and sometimes the visible thump of blood 

My bones are made of limestone, my breath is made of concrete, I cannot be beaten into submission, I am not grounded I am the dirt 

As prone to becoming particulate as anything else, as elemental and universal as the dust I did not wipe from your feet 

I could retch from the taste of momentum in my mouth but I allow fate, vengeance, the grudge I hold against god to remain sunk in my neck 

I have been told that time passing is a blessing. I disagree