There is a tension in waiting
for a blow that never comes;
Your body, crumbled to posturing
perched upon your splintered throne.
There are eyes tired of searching,
yet unable to close for rest;
There are lungs squeezed shallow from filtering
the quietest possible breaths.
There is loss multiplied by loss
in the fight to never be knocked down again;
There are waves that will never drown you, yet
you cannot ever risk submerging for a swim.
There is knowledge of inky black
which no one can pretend not to see;
There are stains of morbid red
where your heart rips open (every other beat.)
There is an exquisite agony
in never feeling home;
It does damage, it curries questions
that should never be asked.
You cannot learn to thrive and love
when your panic will never relax