Let him fix me or let me sit in a chair. I can’t keep up the propel. I don’t have the fuel of fortitude.
Staccatoed survival. Bed rests for spurts of purposeful.
Hyperbole. That’s been my branded. Full of it.
I’ve always been full: full of life, hope, love, sorrow, joy, fear, longing.
Now I’m filled with a new it: unpumped blood.
A heart that won’t empty.