Jinx

A fault line cracked open my chest years before I knew how to stay steady. I don’t always know how to divide weather until after it breaks me. Trembling in its wake only ever taught me how to grieve the end of every relationship before the hazard lights were even flashing.

Disappearance looked good on my shoulders until the weight of it was less resilience and more funeral pyre in the eaves. Pine smoke caught in my teeth, as if earthquakes could be prevented by burning.

Does my resolve make holding look easy?

Bodies don’t look enticing halfway in the grave, but it is my own survival you are witnessing. Decomposition doesn’t always suggest finality. There’s more to me than dirt-stung eyes and bloody knees.

Forgive me, I was not born with seismology. I embodied ravine more than man, and still know how to check the cracks for emergencies.

I know, I know, my own blood on my hands is dismaying, drawn out by unsafe guarantees and the quiet hemorrhage of becoming.

I loved being the disaster until intensity learned it could be more than ravaging.

I cradled my heart in my palms, still gentle despite the fighting, and practiced taxidermy until it turned to craft, until it turned to reverence, until it turned to vitality.

I want more, always. My heart can know the rot and still make room for you. I can hold the walls steady even when the ground is shifting.

“Saw your mom”

Not Suck Your Mom

“Beat your ass into morning”

Not Eat Your Ass In The Morning

“Glad you got your act cleaned”

Not Glad You Got Your Ass cleaned