Say, everything is going to be alright. Mean it but be unsure of yourself, just enough that I can feel it weighting down my limbs.
Hold me close, almost too close. Feel how I can’t breathe. Afraid to breathe anyway, not sure I remember how. There was a time. I am almost certain of it.
When the air wasn’t so tight.
When I could taste the sounds of cars rushing on the highway late at night, when I would hum with the quick pulse of my machinery.
When my veins were the color of soft pewter
and I didn’t even notice
them.
Or stare.
Say, you are so lucky, you’re an angel, made for this.
Say, it only hurts at first, say, but that’s okay.
And it does.
And you’re not sure if it is.
But you let it burn
for as long as you can in case
you don’t know yourself well enough yet
to know better.
.
Photo by Anthony Tran
Allison Marie Conway 