Still Light

I am spilling from my guts
sometimes,
and in the dying and in the laying
to rest of self,
I have watched my veins
bleed out
and wondered quite aloud,
how it was,
“and still, I breathe,”
and in that breath
have say, I must,
and for this very reason speak,
or at least my fingers
speak for me.
So very much alive and yet,
so very close to death, daily,
reminded of this human fragility,
that is the body me.
Not me, interior me,
who speaks and breathes
with ease, always,
this typing, the body dictates for me.