I have only these scratches these pinpricks dark on light so easily crumpled so easy to look away from to say: listen.
The sounds I make are carried away by the wind. My gestures don't mean a thing. My actions are soon forgotten not soon enough.
It is hard to kick against the pricks.
My words, so seemingly frail, are searching for a host
they will take root, and replicate they are neither alive nor dead they are ghosts that can make you ill they are a virus that can heal you they can make you mad.