A collection of almosts

I’m part man, part ghost
all of my fractures stolen
from hammered fists
in momentary madness,
blind in their rage

I’m silent because
there is no outlet for the burn
beyond ambulances and bullets
blasting their skull sirens
through a wall of being

I lock the doors
because all trust is gone
in a society stabbing my back
until I bleed to death
upon a moon-stained sidewalk

I am a collection of almosts,
nearly alive, not quite enough
to look upon my wounds
knowing I am not the flesh
I was meant to be.