My Hands

I get these feelings sometimes

Like my stomach is dancing

out of my skin, running

around my limbs in intricate

little spirals…

one google search away from cancer

as it nestles into my pocket.

A feeling where my lungs

are formed from stone

that will later be carved

into a monolith, marking

six feet above my decaying

orange heart. The epitaph will read:

“she knew from the start,”

because my brain tells the nerves

in my fingers when it is going to rain

and it hasn’t stopped raining.      

It won’t stop raining.

It never stops raining and my fingers are tired

of googling.

Are willow trees actually sad?

Is the universe conscious?

Are they still alive in spirit

or is that just some bullshit hippie propaganda

meant to keep us all from the

constant anxiety of existential crises?

Why is my entire life a quiet fire of existential crises?

Do oranges taste like colour?

Why won’t it stop raining,

I’m losing feeling in my hands.

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