Heavy

Incarcerated and asked to remain silent,
these lungs find irony in gasping for air, restricted.
This heart lessens in beats, maltreated under hands
belonging to its author. Smelling of hard, sun-soaked
skin, his blue-collar fingers strike tar-hued tangled
strands once dripping in a pool of heavy deep
into twin model-esque clavicles, racing down the small
of my back. Now thin, cut complete by worry’s brisk
incline, my scalp and retention of all piercing exposés
lock infection’s growth; saying farewell to baseless
forgiveness backed by all justified guarantees.
Those hands, I wish never to hold. Boyish scars, caused
by the brutish absence of a generation prior’s paternity, I hope
never settle. Depressing the hemorrhage from coiling
dead on arrival, yesterday’s child has won the ultimate
loss; the prescription to restrain chaos by order in viewing
his past charming imprints at face value.

The winds blow heaviest during the seasons of
lost guidance.