Sitting is stable,
but I’m unable to sit
by waysides: it stings,

the trapped breath lining 
my insides because my mind
races as I rest. 

I’d rather run at
my bedside than stop, unwind
till I’m twine without

knots, gasping as I
say it all, gulping poison 
as cure, blindsided 

by why the pain won’t 
subside. Stagnant beats strangled,
but sickness spins ‘still’’

into a question —
it’s the aside: “Please, heart, be
the source, not the sink.”