If

If you crack the sternum, forcing apart the ribs, opening like spider legs you will see rows of dusty books, worn pages, creased and bent full of years passed.You will smell a field of daisies I ran in as a girl. You’ll hear whispered words of love, echoing anger, the sound of loss falling like soft rain. My heart may tighten and recoil, lungs expanding like developing cities. Veins like an electric grid. The image of an iron bikini clad warrior woman riding a tiger, sword raised in the air, she lives within, guardian of the bones she spills over. An open window of flesh. This is what pours out. 

An open window, beckoning in the light, the soft filtered kind that sifts through curtains, that finds the scalloped holes in lace. A soft breeze, hibiscus tea, a shroud of burgundy silk to wrap around your organs, a needle and thread to mend the broken pieces, to sew new stories making patterns out of tissue and cells. This is what is let in.

New and old passing each other in torrents of escape and embrace. A big bang, a kaleidoscope. A window in my chest, only slightly ajar. The ever present motion. In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

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