With hearts like diaphanous, broken wings,Pervious bodies on beds of rusted nails,
Minds like speared chrysalises, contents spilling,
We let go of, we lose our quintessence.
We are rocks that fragment under pressure,
Sere twigs that snap, void carapaces that
Crack under the clubfoot of distress.
Creatures we are whose endurance has
The lifespan of a squirming fish out of water,
Whose vigor wears like watercolor on
Parchment in the rain.
Whose patience is as evaporable as dry ice
In a funeral house.
Whose strength is an armor forged out of a base alloy,
Denting at the slightest touch,
Puncturing at the hits of dull toy arrows.
Our walls of defense are built on sand,
Our wills are as precarious as a house of cards
In a room with open windows,
Our unattainable wants, unfulfilled, are balls and chains
We drag along with us.
This is what we are:
This is what it is,
This is what it feels like
To be human.