I’m not done, uncooked, into a world refusing to cease operations when I’m down.
That’s what I need to say, instead of crying, looking back, intensely running until my feet hurt.
Maybe I should discover a different recipe, delicious dish to my life, been serving weak sauces as the main presentation.
Maybe in you, the truth will be told able to stand any scrutiny and I’ll yell to multitudes of how I’ve been redeemed.
Scream-forcing air out, can I be heard on the other side of the looking glass?
How long will my vibrations last before I’m put to bed in a dirt nap too good? I won’t return.
Yelling out for you.
And I’m not done although I feel like I am most days.
Change my mind, is there any place safe? Maybe inside of your loving arms, unarmed.