we are sentient,
we carve ourselves from gravel,
from volcanic rock and dying evergreen.

we crawl through clouds of dust,
limp on injured feet, tired hands.
we are arbitrary, we evolved to decay.

because we live in graveyards of our own
before,
dead selves.
we bury grief, after every
collapse, every bitter break of these bones.

we keep our skin as treasure.
we dig out our eyes,
to replace them with hands,
as if what we see,
could somehow be grasped,
and what he hold,
could somehow become lost.

cotton,
cotton we wove from webbed skin,
from burnt hair.

veins,
that were never meant to burst,
veins we thread needles through,
as if they were yarn,
as if they were something we could use to stitch ourselves back up again.