ttyl driving

popping ichor laced lashes open,
salted tears stinging their freedom through
swollen vision.

sterile white, burning breaths,
in, out
in,
searing reds rip through my fingers,
nails-..
screws. Finger screws.
Trapped in this broken body.
Tubes as though my doctor is Frankenstein.
If humor is not dead, neither am I.

4 sleeps from now, I’m entreated to see
the slivers I look through in a mirror.
The only bits exposed through the plaster cocoon.

10 sleeps later, I am cut loose.
my limbs are still jelly.
I am not a butterfly.

I won’t ever walk again.

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