With a biology test and a precalculus exam this week, it would make sense for this to be another week spent poem-less. And it will be. Right after this drafty interlude: 

second breath
Stick a needle

through my tongue,

stitching your thin string,

spell out your grievance:

its icing so thick,

it’s almost sweet.

You asked me to sing

right after you dropped

your razor blade on the ice

then took me by the hand,

let my feet slip

and blamed it on my grip,

so that I would ask you to dance with me

thank you, for reminding me

I can feel.

Too many die

without having tasted resilience,

never having the decency

of spitting in the face of fear.

In the silence past the tipping point of loud:

You whisper that you were never

against my existence until my last sigh

became defeat.

You always said:

The drums in my chest were

captivating enough to compete

in your orchestra of strings.