Old Wounds

Before the telencephalon
had morphed into the seat
of cognition the architecture
of disappointment had already
been branded into every 

nucleic acid.

I’ve always questioned
if a conscience had time
to form before the burden
of crushing years had crippled 

emotion from creeping across
her face.This Suicide bomber,
a wound collector herself. She
operates with coy somatic integrity.

Contents of broken glass held
taut by armored, smooth skin.
She digs deep, spitting vociferations
of shrapnel that price far into my
frontal lobes causing erratic neuron
firing and bouts of spontaneous
vertigo. I’d be better off without her,

but these times alone are
fingers in the throat.

Kyle Apgar