Pumping Blood to my Head

hand in the darkness
tugging on the jeans;
tripping up my feet,
grasping at the laces,

falling again,
stumbling over
the grievous wound
ripping itself,
splintering to add
piercing  pain
to the normally
dull ache

hit the ground,
slammed down,
no more air;
it's gone to find
a new home
among the shadows

peeling now,
sliding through
the skin and the bone,
then taking its time
with the grey matter,
taking the time to mash
and mash,
never letting up the pressure

bleeding now,
but the blood doesn't stain
instead rolling off
the duck's back,
and onto the sidewalk
pooling around,
and inside,
the soft squishy ears

dying now,
but it's not so bad,
it's slow at least
letting me cling
to my life and
to my heart,
found among cracked ribs;
it's still beating,
pumping its blood to my head,
to the sidewalk

thrashing now,
dying hurts,
getting worse and worse

black now,

bright now,
too much so
eyes aren't used to light,
been out too long,
panic
heaven?
hell?
hospital, oh
therapy,
talking it out,
talking out the broken bones,
talking the air back into my lungs

talking it all back together
for another hard fall