Obligations
something scraped at,
all those tiny little scratches,
a chessboard sunk into the skin,
and the few deep,
gone too...
only ever in a whisper,
pushed down and blotted out,
stuffed away as long as possible.
and every little prick,
every drop of blood consumed
brings with it the belly's growl
and eternal churning hunger,
craving for...
a denial and restriction,
distractions pulling away,
to anything else.
and if you listened,
if you ever did
the one...
would it ever be different?
where does the exhale go?
from the mouth of one
to the breath of another,
unavoidably moving down the chain,
to the never-last inhale,
and if you swore to me,
swore you'd never...
could i again?
i've lost part of the sense,
but can't find myself
wanting anything back
from...
but baby steps
until shoes kick up,
at least similar to before.
if there's an obligation,
at least...
even if just once.