Dissipate my yellowed face,
Flood the scathing valleys underneath,
Take away this scab.
Can you scrub promise into this skin?
With my eyes sealed,
I’ve decided to inhale spring water.
It’s not spring where I’m dying,
But I wish it were.
So I write to claim a purpose.
My impairments are magnetized towards betterment.
Maybe they’re invisible.
Maybe they’ve become bearable.
I’ve got greenery and it is growing.
Could I be glowing?
Is this living?