You are afraid of water because you're an open wound. It burns you, jerks you away — because those are instincts; because you are hurt, and we cover our ears to the first thunder after seeing lightning, we flinch from a hit we know is coming; we do this because our bodies are vulnerable and exposed and unsafe. Here, my heart is beating again, yes it yields to my fingers and kisses me back — but in the car, love is not the driver. It is in the trunk. Asleep, it doesn't know where it is, and you are seeing all of this from a tall building, so you know the trick like murdering a scriptwriter to know the plot to something that ends badly.
A sadness grows inside the room, outside of your body and you never dared to touch it because it might be gone if you do, if you do just nick it with your fingernails. You don't want this to end because something in the future might be worse than this graveyard, this tombstone, this way of dying. My throat held up by a string, it too wants me to die without knowing how to save myself because the regret knowledge gives is stronger than a hopeless prayer.
So this is the way to go; your body giving its final exhale as you look inside the box. (Dead man. Dead boy.)
You hug your knees in attempt to sleep. You search your body. These are wounds
you just can't find.