Long Distance Runner

When I run barefoot the world becomes
portrayed as a self-portrait, and I see myself
in everything I’m not.
I am erupting and overflowing.
Bulbs bloom out of my eye sockets.
Blossoms billow out of my collar bones
with water spilling from my fingertips.
They need each other’s touch but
dance an extended arms-length away.
Axes are scythes.
Lumberjacks are Grim Reapers.
Everyone is slowly stumping me.
The trees tell me these things.
They talk in photosynthesis
with the wind as a medium.
When the tops of your ears are raw
it is because the trees are yelling
and you are not listening.
Some days I glow more than others.
I’ve lived inside the trees before
and vice versa.
There are explosions happening inside of me.
I am the fourth of July.
My ankles are raw and callused.
Muscles constrict and contract,
overheat and expand.
The roots have earthed.
Bees made hives in my ears
and now there is only buzzing.
My chest plate tectonics do nothing
but rattle the empty nest bird cage
keeping my organs in place.
There are volcanoes having meltdowns.
I am a natural disaster.
I’ve turned everything so far inward
that I have become completely concave.
My stem has scoliosis.
I am wilting. I have.