Faultlines

Concrete first.

No, god first.

No, pressure. Always pressure.

~

I stand. Or lean. Or am already falling and calling it posture.

The crack is there before the thought.

Administrative fracture. Clipboard energy.

Matter filing a complaint against itself.

~

My body is a stack of arguments.

Weight vs balance.

Skin bargaining with stretch.

Muscle promising things it cannot deliver.

Gravity owns the lease.

Fails to collect.

~

Life overlays badly. Tracing paper drunk.

Fault lines miss each other, on purpose.

Energy hoarded like guilt in the hips.

Released like a confession that ruins the dinner.

~

Fault lines. Those. Yes.

Overclocked myths.

High voltage, IKEA instructions.

Gods split at belief seams,

shed miracles like drywall,

leave rubble shaped like prayer hands.

~

I call this rebellion because delay sounds pathetic.

Because inevitability feels impolite.

Because humans rename panic as philosophy.

~

Entropy scrolls.

Heat death thirst traps.

No rush.

No hate.

Just math closing tabs.

~

I lean anyway.

Warm animal.

Bare skin on cold certainty.

Pressing myself into a crack,

naming the error “me,”

holding still long enough

to feel chosen

before the equation continues

without asking.

.