pressed

There’s dread in my belly, pressed and squeezed,
covered in layers of :how to waste time now:,
and bound by moments of being with :you:.

There are other moments alone on my floor
,with hands are too raw to make music and my feeds stale,
when my fingers explore my seams,
tracing the cracks and threadbare patches that have come with age.

Sometimes when I’m strong I let a little out,
laying in horror at noon,
the Sun ablaze and no shadows to hide in.

I’m laid bare with
     all I have not done
     all I may not do
     all I am

I still wonder,
Will I die wanting?
Or will I fight enough to die tired?

-w