the world is loud. out of focus.
full of unintentional bitterness.
homegrown, organic sharpness.
a seemingly-never-ending cycle
of pain and apprehension and grief.
like when you put a record on,
place the needle in the first groove,
but its surface is already scratched.
so it turns, and you expect to hear
whatever soothing song you’d chosen,
and instead it scratches, still revolving,
still skipping every beat, what you
see and what you hear out of sync.
like standing too close to a wood stove,
the pop of the flames startling you
less and less every time.

like the pop of your inner ear
as the plane takes off, leaving
a piece of yourself on the tarmac.

i used to believe
that if i stood close enough to a fire,
my skin would inherit its glow. its radiance.

you’ll find your record that plays.
you’ll know, inherently, which corner
of your room collects the most sunlight.

and when the stars seem to shine
for everyone in the world but you,
remember it’s because you make your own light.