I told them you've got to give your wounds air or they will fester.
But they live in the swamp.
Densely packed with potential predator hiding spots.
Ready position up at all times.
Their neck got tired of sweeping the floor so they put eyes and snakes on it in a bluffing display butterflies would blush at.
It buys them the second take of predators but doesn't always work so they build walls.
I told them you've got to give your wounds air or they will fester.
They paint themselves with a cloud of loud music, telling the world they are as serious as the song sounds.
They dance along the street, winding a circular line-in-the-air with their swirling arms.
With a serpentine stroll and the torso of a toy soldier, they paint their chin up to the sky, dangling their throat into public, daring someone to call it a vulnerability.
The walking equivalent of sleeping with one eye open.
I told them you've got to give your wounds air or they will fester.
Subconscious survival strategies stifle real strength.
Even the snake on their neck should be able to stretch out every once in a while.
They shed their skin and bear a fresh novelty to the world.
I told them you've got to give your wounds air or they will fester.
May they find the time and safe space to take that leap
from the thirty-thousand-foot-view into the unknown
other side of their walls,
giving a parachute to their free-falling inner trooper
so they can
show themselves
the compassion
to switch out
of
sympathetic mode.
