Lizard People

There are lizards deep under my skin. They are tiny and tall, ruby and red, sharp and smooth, nice and nasty. They are older than my soul, they don't know me yet. They haven't been awake long. They help me breathe from time to time. For the most part, they make me stutter; they crawl in my chest and pull on my appendages; the pitter patter of their movements stretches and hurts. The lizards know the dangers of the world; they want to be left alone. They turn against me when adventure and duty calls. They pretend to like those I love, but even still when I am not trying to remain still, they find a way to stick their needles and spines in the groves of my intercostals. I sometimes think the only way away from the pain is to stop moving all together. But that would mean to stop the blood and breath coursing through me. If only movement was anonymous. If only activity was without validation. If only lizards were polite puppeteers. They like to see us suffer.