— today corrals grows out of my chest. they start as itching rash — resembling that of — sore swollen girl nibbles that will develop to breast between the body’s age of nine and twelve years old (1984 until 1987*) — today corrals grows out of my chest — breaks through the surface of my skin like a sea disappearing — they heap up through this tide — a burial shrouds on my body. rise and fall with the breath and corrals emerge — more — for each exhale. for you. for you
writings
Tagged breath
01.22.2016
to be i and alone and that i can’t breath right to stop writing. the thing the letters saying l o n e l i n e s s to can’t hold fear anymore or get any older, since i am a c h i l d to watch the snow cling to the mountains the wind lifting upwards to watch dead fox getting eaten by big bird sitting on it’s head to watch dark tumbleweed’s obstructed fluctuations in fences to recall prior traveling. with h a p p i n e s s this one is fiercer or raw to watch and weep over…
01.16.2016
there’s the body and the breath, that’s all. there’s the mouth, open. there’s the brain’s intricate method of instructions to move the body. there’s the hearts. one stopping, the other left beating
stinnestorm.org 