A Body on Trial

Time is Not the Crime

The bed became the stake

on which each night I burned,

tied to an inferno,

condemned,

ignited simply for time

passing.

Laid prone, surrendered

arms,

spread legs, open,

molten cries trapped

beneath the skin.

Held in contempt, betrayed

by the vessel meant to

protect me.

Pores scream; breaths

fracture.

Gasps collapse into panic,

a five-alarm riot in the

nerves.

I cannot breathe.

Thrashing, cells revolt,

blood boils, while the clock’s

red eye mocks the dark.

Bare.

The body weeps. Drowning.

Sweat.

Fire itching under crawling

skin.

Droplets tap an incoherent

Morse code,

sheets drinking what seeps

from overheated flesh.

Then the turn.

Sweat becomes ice.

The body quakes from the

inside,

muffled screams, an arctic

betrayal.

Heat withdraws without

mercy.

Flash floods. Then collapse:

a sudden ice bath.

I curl into a fetal plea,

seeking the flames that

exiled me here.

When does the battle end?

I know worth. I know time is

a gift.

But sometimes the restitution

is higher

than I want it to be.

The body writes its

own sentence,

guilty of aging.

—FromTenderGround🧡