V. H. King's Ink

holding it in my palms,

cupped and precious;

heavy and beating like a heart–

this is the art of bleeding 

until i remember how to breathe 

again: warmth 

leaking from me and ice 

lacing my lungs, my tongue stuck

on all those hopes;

i too, harbor–

secrets and safety interchanging 

with the need to imagine 

beyond the bounds of the skin 

I’m still struggling 

to live and love within