harpy

My muscles are tensing.

I need to move,

I need to leave this place.

My life is mundane. 

My life is slow-paced.

I need something to happen.

My hands are shaking.

I need to scratch,

What are we made of?

Flesh. Bones. Nerves. Muscle.

We are a cacophony of carrion all bundled together, 

Seen as holy,

Seen as beautiful.

Octopuses have three hearts. I’ve been told that I do too. Is it the way I look at you or the way I listen? Is it how I place my hand on your shoulder or how I smile?