You (ii)

You are the acids in your stomach — they make their way up your gullet and burn the insides of your throat. They stop you from saying the wrong things at the wrong time. You are the ticking of the black-banded watch that never leaves your left wrist. Your heart beats metronomically to its seconds — it pumps the blood that fills the core of your veins. They remind you that you are alive — the same way the redness of your skin does — it glows as you pinch yourself every morning, trying to wake up from the nightmare of reality. You are the poetry you read — the ones that evoke your every thought — every sound and every feeling. You are every curve and line, and punctuation, and mid-sentence. You are the spaces between strings of hidden meaning and the most unrealistic of metaphors. It leaves you vulnerable — the poetry — you've never read something that penned your life down as accurately as that did.