Jan 2015
it was i
who gave to my telescope
the gift of animation
she relays my pulse to the stars
slingshotting binary christmas cards to the carbon that i borrowed from
and some nights
i wake to her breath along my neck as she studies life
and what it means
then
come morning
she kisses my sun-stained synapses
and reminds me that my body's a testament to existence
not a mausoleum
who gave to my telescope
the gift of animation
she relays my pulse to the stars
slingshotting binary christmas cards to the carbon that i borrowed from
and some nights
i wake to her breath along my neck as she studies life
and what it means
then
come morning
she kisses my sun-stained synapses
and reminds me that my body's a testament to existence
not a mausoleum
the only poem i ever wrote about last year's miscarriage, and thankfully, my pen only spoke of my survival. to all the women who know the ache of having to dismiss your demigod before it ever reaches its throne: i love you, and i want you to know, you aren't alone.
