Spinal Cord Tap Dancers

i feel him on my nerves my fucking last nerve.

 He’s tap dancing on it

the points of the god damn shoes cutting into the tendrils

the spindles coming undone as he shifts his weight




 balance shaky as he stands on the tight rope of my spinal cord, on my last frayed frozen nerve





because his footsteps clack against my vertebrae

forcing out a song of bones and electricity that I was not yet meant to feel.

But I do

and with each




he cracks the dura matter breaking his way deeper into my psyche,

my secrets no longer mine,

my words turned to mush.

He's a brand new virus

my fucking own personal meningitis

 he seeps up the capillaries along the column that fights to keep my upright

he's moving from inside to out covering every inch of me,

all inflamed all on fire.

 And it means nothing.

 I suffer from a painful encephalopathy

caused by a too big tap dancer with pointy shoes

doing the jitterbug on my one healthy nerve

and he lets it unravel under his feet,

paying little mind to that fact that when my wires snap in half,

their reinforcements giving way,

the dams flooding the city,

gravity will not be kind to him.


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