Half way there.
You worked so hard today,
just a staircase left.

But the staircase is a pool.
A pool of blue-gold water
shimmering and—
now concrete.

I’m sick of skipping stones.
I want to be the stone that is skipped.
I want to sink to the bottom and worry
not about drowning, but I will do what is best
and observe and be instead
of live.

I know that’s what I’m best at.
My heart knows it.
Even with some talent in bloody veins.

I could spill it out and transfuse it
to somebody in need.
But how in need are they,
because it feels like a limb I use to massage my heart
when it gets a little tense and needs to be lulled to sleep.

My thumbs are looking pretty bad.
I keep chewing away the skin—
there isn’t much left.
So I’ll just sit in the staircase until it’s all gone,
I’ll be a clean stone.