and sometimes we just get caught up in the wake."
I am draped in flowers,
soft as sleeping youth,
so tired of pretending,
that my bones are light
and I am not already undone
by the weight of the sun,
the burden of the trees,
and the sky—
so blue
I feel it ache.
The clock hums in its cage—
a bird who hasn’t sung
since I remembered
that I am still here,
still spinning,
still waiting for the knife
to fall,
not in terror,
but in the foolish hope
that it will
cut me
in the right place—
in the place where I am supposed to bloom.
See, there is joy in the dust,
(but it tastes like rust)
and even as I pull at the flowers—
petal by petal, sweet,
delicate,
so delicate—
I wonder,
will I ever learn to swallow
beauty without choking
on the things it means to me?
The river doesn't wait.
It stretches its arms,
pulls me in,
lapping at my ankles
as if to remind me
that nothing is ever still—
no joy, no suffering,
no sweet desire
that hasn’t already
turned on its heel.
And yet,
with every break,
with every fracture—
there is this laugh,
so deep in my chest,
as though I could sing
just once
for the sorrow that defines
me—
(or maybe it is the joy
that has been hiding
in my bones all along).
The moon is full,
and yet I feel empty.
Still, I pull in breath
like it is something I can hold.
Perhaps this is my mistake.
Perhaps
it is all just falling apart
as it should,
and I am the fool
to believe otherwise.
But the stars,
oh,
they will keep dancing,
won’t they?
The night will never ask me
for permission
to be beautiful
just as it is.
So I hold my hands out
to catch the light
that I don’t deserve—
and I am okay with it.
I am okay.
Just for this moment—
just for now,
I will be the one
who does not break
when the river does.
But this,
this,
is only for a second.
The truth is in my skin,
and it hums
with the ache of something
I can't quite parse.
Oh, but the stars.