Waking consciousness only deepens the breadth of the sickening settling confusion that blossoms so heavily in thorny crowns around my hands so that they are pinned to my thighs like how beauty marks litter your skin from too much time spent in the sun. I spent too much time basking in your black hole confused about how the light wasn’t shining on me...instead my light was being ****** in. ****** from my veins so that eventually every inch of my body was decorated with black vestiges of the rivers that once flowed blindingly white. It’s been six months of half a year, and my body is still sectioned out in slippery squares that feel so impossible to stitch back together. How can I still drown in the valley of our broken love if the pitcher that filled it has crumbled into tiny grains of sand, that I cannot hold with my hands? Oh Lord, won’t you reconcile this desert that settled on my heart? Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord. I want to be found. I want to be found. Can you hear all the sounds that ricochet like tennis ***** against the tennis court? Oh Lord. It’s deafening from down here.