painkiller

it induces this inexplicable illusion of serenity

it allows me to breathe

my lungs are empty milk cartons

easily crushed

damp with the memory of the warmth that once filled them

I am an eggshell

anticipating the moment when pure will and adrenaline will no longer hold together this delicate disaster

every step

every swallow

every whisper

is a threat to my existence

but my hands are solid

my fingertips are calloused and raw

these veins hold nothing but ink

pure blue like the night sky just before the stars fade into view

I am not a fragile flower

my weakness is not a beautiful thing

but it is not shameful either

it is human

trace my scribbles with your palm

let your eyes read blind

let your hands feel the emptiness

let me let you touch me

and understand my parchment better than you will ever understand the marks of my skin