Rip the wound open.
Put some saw dust and meal worms in its gaping chasm.
Half-bury candles in the loose soil and light them.
Grate dead skin over the flame.
Keep your hair safe and covered.
Lay fresh cut flowers to dry out.
You are not making an explosive,
you are the explosive
and this altar is a fuse.
A pretend ritual for a pretend adult.
Bury it.
Maybe you’ll forget.
Bury it.
Leave it on the river bank.
Let the birds turn the mud
like compost.
The wick is a torch,
the wick will feed a fire so hot
that the ghosts of anger will exhume the flame
to melt the mud to liquid glass.
It hardens.
You harden.
A wound as a glass eye on the verge of splintering.
My anger is a less potent gasoline
I am still extracting out of water.
I need it to get me out of bed.
I need it to weaponized my words,
to make my hands knives with the
multiplicities of blade dance;
to ask for anything,
to not get lost.
My anger is a love
buried in a boneyard
full of worms and wounds.
It reminds me to touch those
that still visit.
That I have a stake in
the ways the world moves.
Rip the wound open
let a scale of sacredness slide out.
I am grateful
I am awful
I am angry
I am trying to get warm enough next to the flame
without getting burned.
thistle breath 