As always, Cliche circulatory Imagery Poem

Mustn't Keep Secrets

Share ourselves and shame ourselves,
flow as blood that does not belong to us,
pump fists, lock valves.

This heart here on my wrist can't pump through anything at all,
This heart is a cynic. It bleeds through cliches,
uses damage as leverage for jokes.
It gets paranoid, gets flighty, floats up like sputum,
which is to say, it chokes. It coughs.
It hits ceilings like a sore throat after too many smokes,
folding there on the hot roof of my mouth, waiting to be frightened and swallowed back like thought, scratching into an already dug out point, scratching at wetted eyelids and cheeks enclosing dry eyes.

I can't feel what once lured me in check with myself. What once tried to tell me how I'd know if I'd be okay. I can't feel it. What grounds me, or sends me flying to rooftops like a tongue pushing against words before they're bitten into syllables,
and what keeps these thoughts from running together.
It's been a trying beginning to adulthood, privileged and lazy. Lucky but too fucked up.
It's been heavier thn skin and it has worn thinner the line that knots and seperates anxieties from reality.