these are my arms, this is my mind
and i am my own body.
the cotton on my skin acts as a shell
and it won't tell you what's behind my eyes
or why i'm slouched in coach class seat E
watching the great American plain
roll away beneath me.
there's just something i have to try and fix
or at least hold in my wrinkled palms
until the bleeding has stopped.
the tapping anxiety in my feet
makes it clear this is urgent
but i'm no surgeon, this is no ambulance
and a thousand miles can't be trifled with.
so i rest my weary head on my knees
to let the time slip away
until my hands find the wound.
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