I have an irregular heartbeat.

I got it from my dad, like my propensity to get lost in the country on purpose.

It’s 121 beats per minute while I’m lying in bed,

My heart racing my thoughts while my feet stay still.

But at least I know I’ll never be stagnant.

 

I know it’s wrong but I love the sulfurous glow

That shrouds the city in orange as the street lamps buzz into life

I feel at home in the rush on the street

I’m happiest when I haven’t the time to stop.

124 beats per minute.

I tend to walk too fast

To keep pace with the restlessness in my bloodstream

I let the minute details set up residence in my mind

Only to be dispelled by the strangely comforting fumes of the public buses.

118 beats per minute.

 

Sometimes my heart overextends and claws at my ribs,

Forces its way through the gaps in my bones

And tugs on my nerve endings to remind me

Of the times when I’ve abandoned myself to impulse.

134 beats per minute.

Every mistake I’ve made is burned into my subconscious

Hypercritical, tirelessly forming scar tissue over the imperfections.

Exonerating every burdened gyrus,

Absolving every delinquent sulcus.

137 beats per minute.

I’m not much of a spiritualist but there’s something holy

In how it feels to be imperfect.

 

I’ve always been a bit compulsive,

But now I think all I really crave is honesty.

I’ve been told that you’re here to find my faults

So I thought I’d lay some of them out for you

Because so often it seems that they stick closer to my side than anything else.

So homeostasis pinches and molds and soothes

Gently gradates my behavior,

Parses and polishes my actions through trial and error.

I feel most free in the moments when I can live alongside my indiscretions

Symbiotically.

93 beats per minute.