There was something in the way she dismantled herself— the way she pulled fire from the sun and burned; the way she lay face down in the rubble, breathing in ash and despair; the way she tasted the destruction before she carved herself anew from the black sky.
This is an excerpt from a piece I’ve written for my book.
They tell you to follow the sun as if night isn’t upon you as if the shadows aren’t real
but night is still upon you
The thing in your mouth, copper hush rage whispers silence screams until you sing your song of flames:
Let them come Oh, let them rage Let them find me in the shadows Let them say my name And quake
They tell you to let go as if you’ve unpacked your pain as if you’ve poured it into the earth
but hell still sits in a suitcase
The thing in your belly, it knows the magic lies in the coming apart in the middle of the wreck in your every season and every room it waits
Hurt is hard to feel but still the wound must speak and speak it does before you heal
They tell you to sit on the moon keep fishing dark skies for stars as if hope isn’t hanging by a thread of nostalgia as if you didn’t notice the rage behind the flowers before they were plucked from your garden
but his hands are still entangled in your hair
The thing in your center, it calls little by little in waves it comes
Pull up a chair, sorrow says out of body, slip you will rebuild yourself but first, rest
I get to thinking about how long I have carried things around with me; things I am not certain I will ever unload; things buried so deep they are embedded in my soul and perhaps beyond my reach. Is it even baggage anymore or has it broken down and been absorbed? Is it in my blood and bones? I wonder