I will feed again

I loathe the drapery, the dust settling, the divide, the cravings.

My body is a temple not savored, glands uncaged, blood unspilled like the overgrown backyard not tended. Other dead things rise toward the sky and fall back over my temples in tendrils, a folly of frolicking follicles, anemia in the apple blossoms silent and crying, littering the unseen ground in desert snow.

But summer is on its way, and I will change my mind.

Cycle in non-symmetry that only I know but cannot explain. And do you explain? How do you confer these feelings without capitulations, generalizations, split ends falling to the ground? Meet me halfway and we'll nod our heads in unison. That warm feeling is fading. But still I feed and know that I will feed again.

My body is not even my body. My thoughts are not complete, immobile in partitions, sheltered by fear. I know that life will continue verbatim and expire in a moment's notice. It's already over, falling to the unseen ground. But these are just analogies and metaphors to help ignore the starkly apparent.

And as soon as I'm able, I will transform, I will disappear. I will not be here.