I am most alive in that wild moment before death. Eyes clocking every corner for possible escape. Heart racing but my legs not moving. Skin tingling.
I have more than just my name beneath this skin. More than painted skies; more than grey lines and worn out lies.
My veins are just seams unstitched too many times I’m afraid. I am frayed. Made up of needles and string and patches and tears and nobody wants a thing that isn’t whole. I am a blanket of holes.
I plant thorns and grow roses from my wrists. Glorious gushing gardens of delicate petalled tragedies. I have not yet been choked by weeds.
Follow these stretch marks while I tell you how I have grown into myself. How I have expanded to fill spaces others created. You would do well to fill your own space without shame.
Don’t think that this ink was injected into my pores. It has poured from my soul and soaked the silk that keeps all this story in. I am not trying to paint over my sins. I am smearing the start of chapters I’m scared to begin.
God calls this body temple. I call this a temple for the gods. Beautiful, only because the windows are stained glass and my lips are broken cross mounted on the face brick wall. Unmoving.
In the moment before death, I am unmoving whether I stay or go.
You have my word 
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