—all will be left behind here in this place, forgotten/ sprouting—remember birth-days in crowded places, replenished?—remember the fun you forgot to have? and now in your painted up, you sacrifice nostalgia with a numbing. It wasn’t that your life was hard or that your findings unimportant, it’s that your youth trounced, what was invasive. Unaware that life was meant to leave a bad taste.
[In days where sleep awakens me, I see my hair pearly and sterling, stunning—it turns into stripping—despoiling a rifle where my third eye died.]
It’s easier, as the days vandalize— to clothe my woes in what I’ve learned, in spoil—we all rot in the earth unless we’re burnt, or we crash into the sea. I wonder what it feels like to die in the air? How ideal the flight of the white-throated swift for a woman able to spiral in death, and in love—fucking through the air of a canyon. To fly into death. Into ecstasy.
We are all deficient. We obsess over documenting ourselves so that we don’t forget how much it hurt to get to where we’re at. People talk of sadness as if it’s a sickness, unable to see how critical it is to taste it and treat it as if it’s just another texture in your mouth. Lately, my favorite time is the midnight air, lifting ruinous thoughts that the hours brought. I try to feel out the shapes of my face and touch the curves of my mouth where all pessimism lives. All the parts erupted, caressed with the jitteriness of my eight track fingertips planting seeds into my now drought-tolerant silvery gray leaves.