Hanging on by a nut hair

I know the walking wounded 

when I see them.

I know that look.

I know that gait,

the half-shuffle

that makes me question if my steps

say the same thing about me.

I recognize the shallow breathing,

the heart beating a little faster than average,

the wild fear in the eyes,

the kind of glint that only lives on the edge of it all,

a nut hair away from

seeing the final binary.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell

who’s who

in this life,

but there’s no confusion in the eyes.

All I can do is remember

and remind myself

not to lie

when

I look in the mirror;

when I recognize the walking wounded,

I recognize myself.