deep in the pit of my stomach
sits a small but heavy rock.

like water at the bottom of a broken well,
it sits, and sits, and sits.

but unlike that water, it does not evaporate.
It will not evaporate. It cannot evaporate.

the rock in the pit of my stomach sometimes feels like homesickness.

that’s how I describe it:

an intense longing for comfort, for ease,
but no respite in site.

one year ago
i thought i was at the brink of escape.

the rock would escape the well.
i would escape the rock.

i was foolish.
you cannot not run from rocks
in the pits of stomachs
so engrained into the lining
that they are fully a part of
who you are.

one year ago
i thought i was at the brink of newness, freshness, wholesome beginnings

i was to be born-again
i was to be crying, screaming into a new life
i was to be able to breathe without fluids
drowning my lungs with expectations.

life cannot be born again.
life cannot be restarted.
life cannot be a clean slate.

each atom i have is different from the atoms i was made up of last year
but they've seen all the same ****.

there is no escaping
there is only moving forward.