Threshold

I'm poked with holes.

They breathe and bleed simultaniously.

Shaking and weeping,

cringing and curling into a ball for sleep.

My threshold of pain

is not something I can predict. 

A clay pot? Empty and ready?

A heart? Warm and full?

A brain connected to every nerve in the body?

I could endure more if I was porous. 

I might survive the intensity of pain.

Each drip of blood able to move through the pulse.

Or be strangled.

When it's impossible to let go I could be a sponge.

Each swirling crevice able to sustain the pregnancy of fat fantasies.

Holding time at bay and still swelling

to prevent reality from shattering me into tiny pieces.

Lack of pain could be more painful.