Murky, fickle, sickled illness
You detonated in the caves of my chest
like a firework in the sky,
sending down sparks
and ricocheting cardboard shrapnel.
The spaces between my ribs
and the gaps inside my brain
could once rest peacefully.
my stained mug brimming with black coffee
the bittersweet twist of spring raspberries
the soggy smell of leaves falling.
my arms and legs
my lungs and the curve of my stomach
and turn them back
from leaded pipes
to soft flesh.
all my little parts
so I can breathe again.
Nicola Traynor is currently studying Journalism and Creative Writing at Northwestern University. Raised in Connecticut in an Egyptian-American household, much of Nicola's writing focuses on identity and family.