Swirling together in cluttered cosmos.
My bones are made of milk past its prime.
My blood is made of cheap strawberry wine.
A bragging pulse.
I am still alive.
Only to verify
That I cannot die-
Not when I wanted to.
Not this time.
My lineage is humble, Daddy committed suicide.
I was ten, not yet fermented, unpasteurized.
I live for everyone else, to satisfy
Caught in a web of aspirations and lies.
Immortality in the form of
Molecules molded to imperfection,
Heartbeats and cries.