handfuls of air

on the inside, words bubble up,

flesh-born. we make tunnels between our faces,

ferrying meaning, paths between brains,

tubes of thought tearing soft reality,

burrowing into flesh.

so building futures, protecting pasts,

we fight to keep the meaning.

we strain, but it will not hold.

our story is our burden.

we practice relaxing our faces

as if it's not a chore to carry a person

every second of every day.

in the dark, we lay our person down,

operate, bend and snap it into something

more pleasing to us, for the moment.

what we now call good, we will later drown

without remorse, like god in the garden.

all he had was a rib and some mud.

our materials are shadows.

shadows we will into words,

words we mold into story,

story we shape into person.