sometimes i feel like
my heart is too big for this body;
too big to be contained in a rumbling
mass of flesh and bone
tangled and tripping over limbs
on a mere mortal plane --
sometimes i sit and
stare and look down at my hands
with raised veins that angrily run along my skin like mountain ranges
and the bones that wordlessly take the burden of the sky
(not much unlike atlas)
and at the chest that pumps
gallons of blood a day through
lungs that keep
inflating,
deflating,
and filling up again --
a graceful song for which
there is an indefinite end.
sometimes i look at my eyes
(people say they are the windows to the soul)
and in their depths
i see the battles i have
won and fought and
clawed and scratched
my way through --
they are tired but bright,
brimming with life,
aching to live
despite the beating.
i look at my body and wonder,
how have you not failed me yet?
i look at myself and the intricacies
of which my muscles move
and the delicate inlaced with
a quiet sort of strength;
this body houses
gospels,
magnificent crescendos
and heart-stopping diminuendos.
i think to myself,
i am me,
and nobody else.
this body is mine,
and nobody else's.
isn't that a cataclysmic revelation --
the realization that you are alive?
the fact you are still breathing?
the certainty that you are a work of art?