this world doesn’t make sense
and why should i?
scan the toes,
the calves, the knees.
scan the hips, stomach, chest.
down my shoulders, neck, and head
my head in my chest in my toes on the floor.
i go inside,
i pull in the outside with a fishing net
that blooms underwater
but suffocates the fauna.
i’m tired of explaining,
it doesn’t change anything,
so i float with the garbage.
we party,
we scream in a car in the packed lot,
we wrap rotting gifts with words,
fumble with the shapes,
feel feet frozen.
the words are seeds
that harden
as i put them in my hand.
they weren’t quite ready
to grow.
their strategy for survival
is to sleep
until they are called.
you just have to cut the seed
let it sip the water
and wait
to germinate
but i never do.
an accent is comfort
an accent lets me
choose where i come from,
let’s me pretend to be a we
with a past
i can control.
my mother’s accent
watered down from three continents,
sounds like the gibberish
i speak to myself.
we can pull in relief with a net
before we suffocate it.
i am not the person who survived.
they wear me out, elicit pity
i want them to be tough
despite everything.
and they are
in a specific hibernation,
a revenge procrastination.
we will show the world what they
missed out on
while it passes us by.
where have the limits of possibility
been stifled by my own hand?
i think healing looks like this
but it doesn’t.
i think talking helps like this
but it can’t.
i think thinking prepares like this
but it won’t.
i am being called to
leave the net on the deck,
let the flowers fruit,
and sit in the sun.
you don’t heal a hard seed.
tessa rae
abve ay
mon bee fir
rife ebe nom
flel lell lock
crop lik te
sew op slush
free tum lie
you don’t heal a hard seed
but that doesn’t mean
i won’t try.
thistle breath 