Scraps

The words are coming back to me.
Slowly.
Trickling down my ears, pooling at my shoulders before making a run smoothly, unencumbered, down my arms
Weaving riverbeds into my wrists, curling down around my wrist, clasping,
Seeping themselves into my fingers, lining the patterns of my fingerprints, making me only me and no one else but me
These words are mine, and I give them to you.
Branching out from my insides, refusing to quiet, to calm, they cannot be contained.
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Pesky body bones scream
The weight of a thousand dead yous
Crumbling my foundation
There are no guarantees, no such thing as promises
Words, empty inkjets, pretty ribbons strung together
Tangled in trees
Careless nooses and spitfire guns.