falling, familiar.

by Michael King

i am at odds with my body,
another wobbly walk home,
fresh blood stinging against
the open air, i am a
somatic wound shivering
in the wind

and how do i finish my poetry
on a night like this, what
is my voice but another
wailing failure to sing hope
through these closing walls, my
throat a vinyl scratched
and skipping, stammering
this will be, this will be fi, this
will b, be fine, this will, this

in the shower, i survey my
wounds and realize i wish
i didn’t have so much experience
bandaging them on my
own

i fall the same way
every time, even the
people i have just begun
to know shake their heads,
again?and i don’t know
what to tell them, except

i learned to sprint on
shaky ankles, and no
pavement’s made a
strong enough case for
slowing down just yet

this heart is so stubborn,
blood glistening through
the flesh freshly broken,
loving nothing more,
nothing, than the kind of
love that demands
running, reckless,
over the jagged slap
of broken ground

poetry