Some stories are baked into your bones stored in the quiet architecture of your body
Your arms only know how to go up in defence And your feet find a faster way to run Ears only listen for the trigger Even though there is no gun
You carry them in the way your shoulders brace before a question is fully asked
And when your mouth chooses silence
The story finds a way out curls itself into a panic attack
and pretends to escape you
until next time.
