Conscious

I'm trying to be more conscious of myself.

Because yesterday I cut my fingertips on the edges of you and didn't mind the blood.

I didn't mind the knee scrapes or the vision problems,

if it all meant you'd stick around longer I'd be fine.

I'm fine.

Don't worry, it's just a little blood,

I'm fine.

 I'm trying to be more conscious of myself,

more conscious of my skin and the fact that it has a low paying job of keeping everything in,

but still shows up on time everyday.

And that my blood has to constantly focus on going to the right places and making sure that my brain gets enough while checking my heart doesn't get cut off completely.

Oh but don't forget about my arms, make sure they get circulation because they're not encircled as often as I'd hoped and please remember to stop by my hands so that he'll still hold them.

I'm trying to be more conscious of myself.
More conscious about my eyelids
because they're too focused on opening and closing to notice the tricks being played in front of them.

But don't blame them, I'm the one that can't stop volunteering from the audience.

And I'm trying to be kinder to my hands when I rub them raw, they're just hands.

Empty or not they're just hands.

And I don't know how my ribs haven't capsized yet, the renovations haven't been touched in years.

But I'm fine

Don't worry it's just a cracked rib,
I'm fine.

I'll be fine.

I've been making it complicated since 1996,
 and please see that isolation is underrated just like the way you leave your conscious at the door.
I know you think that will help not track the blood in but it's already all over the floor,
along with the lies that came crashing down
the second we saw through them.

And I know you add "Just kidding" to everything to hide,
but there's no shadows to step into anymore.



So honey please,
will you get the band aids from the top shelf?
I'm starting to bleed out.