the earth is an ornament. a terrarium within a glass sphere, a balance, a system. a beauty. filled with light and hope and green and truth and blue and love and grey and orange and red. filling with haze and acidity from our mouths and from our eyes, spilling out into the rivers, our brains and guts splattered on pavement like that salamander who could not move fast enough. we dig out roots and networks beneath our feet and crush them to pump out fog and smoke. our bones are those long buried by time and grief. will that be me one day? will i grow up as something to dribble out of fuel tanks to allow for movement not nearly as fast, not nearly as efficient as i once was? you made me into something less of myself, you tore my tongue from my throat and punctured my eyes and gagged my mouth. you cut my wrists with a butcher knife and froze me solid, you ground me to char and let my blood my blood my blood be your ichor. you who never fought for me in life will fight to tear me limb from limb, pour my soul into 3mL, no, 2L, no, 1.65L, yes, yes, that will be enough. enough for what? to power another mile, another crush, another burn? is that my only future? they say those in glass houses should not throw stones but shattering is all i know to do, if i do not break myself i will stay whole and you will break me all the same.