Fall in slow motion and you can lean on me. I’ll be your table. Down on all fours, I’ll support your back. I won’t let you fall even if it means you having to fall on me. My strong back will keep you off the ground and keep you safe, especially when the ground is lava. I won’t mind if it burns my hands, I will stay rigid and strong. Until all I have are the stumps of my wrists and ankles. But I will be your table. I will be there for you. The gods of Mount Olympus will transform me into well-sanded and polished walnut or mahogany or cherry. I will be smooth to touch and smell like I was just carved, I was just sanded. I am more than driftwood, but even if I was driftwood, I would own it I would rock it. It wouldn’t be so bad. I will hold this shape until I know you’re alright and if you’re never alright, I’ll hold this shape until the death of you or me. I am strong and supported. All my energy concentrated. I’m concentrating on it. Do you smell trouble on the horizon of a cold, frigid sunrise? Does it smell like no trouble at all? I taste the woodshop, flecks of bark and tree flesh dust my feet as I walk across. I see nothing but the space right above my hands. I close my eyes more than I open them. I need to get balanced get right. Blisters will form at my hands as I hold this shape, even though my hands will likely go numb. I can’t feel them. Cold tingly fear, like I’ll never feel them again. And it gets like this in meditation, well – without the pins and needles. But when you close your eyes, your hands just (my hands just) disappear. Where are they if I can’t feel them? Phantom limb with it all still attached? The smell of woodworking gets caught up in my nostrils. Sharp, but mellow. Sweet, but still sharp. To take one of the shavings and put it to your lips would probably taste just like a communion cracker. No flavor, but a wheat aftertaste. Bland and disappointing. But these wood shavings are not for eating. Imagine running your hand opposite the unsanded grain get deliberately getting splinters. I could karate chop this thing in half. I could throw it at the wall. I remember flipping the coffee table in a blind rage when I didn’t get accepted to Drexel.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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