You are safe here. He insists, and I can’t help the way my eyes drag over the blood on his hands. I have forgotten what safety feels like. I tell him, watching the knowing flick of his eyes and twitch of his fingers.
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You are safe here. He insists, and I can’t help the way my eyes drag over the blood on his hands. I have forgotten what safety feels like. I tell him, watching the knowing flick of his eyes and twitch of his fingers.

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I woke up one morning and everything changed. The color of the sky inverted. Gravity suddenly ripped me back to earth, bent my wings in two, and cracked my elbows on the asphalt.
I woke up.
God, it's like fiberglass in my eyes.
God, it's like cardboard cuts under the nails.
God, i fucking get it.
I wish I didn't get it.
Sometimes, people think they love you and maybe they even believe it. But I get it now. You can love someone and not even like them. How wretched. How messy. Maybe we are made in God's image, after all.
I mean, how could he like himself after everything he's done? How could he not love himself when faced with the reflection in the eyes of his Son?
I'm dusting off my tongue. Polishing the rust off my collarbones. I'm figuring out where the mirror ends and the flesh begins and the value in these veins.
How could I keep spilling it for you?
How could you let me?
I woke up, and I learned how to see ghosts in the people I want to love. I am exorcising those hauntings. Fuck, it hurts. It's going to hurt. I don't think it ever stops hurting. But there's space for that hurt in the skin and in the glass and in my bones and in the past and I will hold.
I woke up one mourning, and i promised to forgive myself. The sky changed color. Or maybe I finally saw it.
My mother taught me that the longer you keep that howl trapped inside your body, the more wolf you become, but she never showed me how to let the howl out. Womanhood is also this: a violence louder on the inside than it is on the outside. Smiling when truly all you are doing is baring your teeth.
Nikita Gill, This Wild Violence Visits Again
It feels like I'm dying
Again and again decomposing into the carpet
My ribs are too heavy to rise off the floor
My breath is too thin to do good in my lungs
Ears ringing
I'm dying. I cut out too many pieces of me. Unraveled roots too deep. Hollowed fragments just dangling by the remaining tendons.
My spine presses to the ground and it sings that it belongs in the dirt and grass under storm clouds and with worms weaving the empty space where my spinal cord should be
I'm dying
It feels like the end
It is the end
And also the beginning and i don't know what to do with these dandelion fingertips. How to breathe around the moss and roots. How to scrape the stones from my sinuses and keep going keep going
One thin breath at a time
One blank ceiling at a time

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Kai Cheng Thom, from "to the ones who didn't cry", Falling Back in Love with Being Human: Letters to Lost Souls
I can't do it
I have to do it
I can't do it
I have to do it
I can't do it
Why do i have to do it
I can't
I must
Breath by breath
Failure by failure
I can't do it
I have to do it.
It feels like I'm dying
Again and again decomposing into the carpet
My ribs are too heavy to rise off the floor
My breath is too thin to do good in my lungs
Ears ringing
I'm dying. I cut out too many pieces of me. Unraveled roots too deep. Hollowed fragments just dangling by the remaining tendons.
My spine presses to the ground and it sings that it belongs in the dirt and grass under storm clouds and with worms weaving the empty space where my spinal cord should be
I'm dying
It feels like the end
It is the end
And also the beginning and i don't know what to do with these dandelion fingertips. How to breathe around the moss and roots. How to scrape the stones from my sinuses and keep going keep going
One thin breath at a time
One blank ceiling at a time
Duality.
His hands are like a marble statue, the scars are the only part that move.
Some days I look in the mirror and he is looking back at me. I cant tell if he's sad or disappointed. I dont really want to know.
In my dreams he follows my footsteps, my cloven markings. Hey, Angel, ive never thought of myself as prey before now.
I walk by a car in the parking lot and my hair is a halo of earth brown before I remember that isn't my body. It never was.
When I was a little girl I woke up in the night, and there he was, all petal soft and scarred and ready to rock me back to sleep.
Its hard being seperated from the other half of you. Where do I end? Where does he begin? We are the roots of a tree growing into two trunks. His hands mine. My eyes his.
Sometimes, i look down at my hands and there is nothing there. Sometimes my body is not mine. Sometimes it isnt even ours. When I see my hands again they are bloody with the work he does. The good work. The work I am not strong enough to do.
The kind word is borrowing. He borrows me. I borrow his strength. The unkind word is possession. I'm sure my mother would not like it if she knew he slips into this skin so easily. I do not tell her.
How can you possess something that already belongs to you?
This dance through water
Through blood and stars
Our veins intertwine
What is it to exist seperate?
Angel, when did I become we?
You know, he's a lot like you, River Stones. Smiles like you. Sharpens his teeth in the dark. Laughs as warmly. I see so much of you in this stranger, and my chest aches.
You know, I miss you, River Stones.
That's a lie.
I miss the man you told me you were. I miss the boy who wore that skin and that smile and that kindness. I don't miss what lurks under.
He's a lot like you, you know.
And like you, I'll cry for him, I know.
I think i miss your laugh the most, River Stones. I always loved your laugh. I hope you can forgive me for this. This selfishness. I miss your laugh, and your smile, and the way you danced as you told a story, and I miss my friend.
Hey, can you tell my what happened to that boy?
Did he exist?
Could he exist?
Anyways, he reminds me of you, River Stones, and I don't know what to do with it. But i do know i cannot love his laugh. I cannot watch his smile. I cannot listen to his stories.
I cannot be his friend. Not when he's like you.
I'm not that stupid anymore

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4.18.25
I'm trying to find the whimsy in it. The color. Wrap it all in pastel foils and gold leaf and pretend that I cannot see my own marrow leaking out of the corners. Pack it up tight and shove it in a jar with luster dust and fairy lights and display it on a shelf.
I don't know how to do it.
How to breathe around it.
When you drown in salt water, you actually drown on your own blood ripped from the membrane by the brine. When I saw you, really saw you, time stopped. An insignificant moment for you. A lifetime for me. Laughter clawing it's way between my ribs and wrapping golden claws around my lungs and this moment in time is the brine. It repeats. Your seafoam joy and the crushing weight of water over my head as the voice of an Angel pressed against the back of my neck and promised
This one, this one we could love.
I knew this was a tragedy from the start. A horror movie. I try not to cling to that siren-song moment. But sometimes when you talk to me there's a ghost of a smile kissing the corners of your eyes and I see him.
Id rather you just kill me.
Uproot me. Rip the veins from my body and turn them into dreamcatchers one last time. One last bone-aching dance in the kitchen and the crashing crescendo of my screams in my car under the full moon. I don't want to see him. My love. The one it was supposed to be. My Star, my unmaking, the green flash of this downhill slope.
There is no one i want to see more.
My ribs fit into your hands because they were made to. Because I shaped them to. With fire and steel I made this body yours. Take the bones. Turn them into windchimes. Take the blood. Water your garden with it.
This is my consequence.
This one. This one we could love.
And even when I pull the trigger, even through the blackpowder grief, I cannot stop. And I cannot find the whimsy in it all. The light in this ache. The hope. The future. Because this one, this one i loved. And there is nowhere in this wretched body that could ever fit the remains of this star-glow ache.
4.18.25
I'm trying to find the whimsy in it. The color. Wrap it all in pastel foils and gold leaf and pretend that I cannot see my own marrow leaking out of the corners. Pack it up tight and shove it in a jar with luster dust and fairy lights and display it on a shelf.
I don't know how to do it.
How to breathe around it.
When you drown in salt water, you actually drown on your own blood ripped from the membrane by the brine. When I saw you, really saw you, time stopped. An insignificant moment for you. A lifetime for me. Laughter clawing it's way between my ribs and wrapping golden claws around my lungs and this moment in time is the brine. It repeats. Your seafoam joy and the crushing weight of water over my head as the voice of an Angel pressed against the back of my neck and promised
This one, this one we could love.
I knew this was a tragedy from the start. A horror movie. I try not to cling to that siren-song moment. But sometimes when you talk to me there's a ghost of a smile kissing the corners of your eyes and I see him.
Id rather you just kill me.
Uproot me. Rip the veins from my body and turn them into dreamcatchers one last time. One last bone-aching dance in the kitchen and the crashing crescendo of my screams in my car under the full moon. I don't want to see him. My love. The one it was supposed to be. My Star, my unmaking, the green flash of this downhill slope.
There is no one i want to see more.
My ribs fit into your hands because they were made to. Because I shaped them to. With fire and steel I made this body yours. Take the bones. Turn them into windchimes. Take the blood. Water your garden with it.
This is my consequence.
This one. This one we could love.
And even when I pull the trigger, even through the blackpowder grief, I cannot stop. And I cannot find the whimsy in it all. The light in this ache. The hope. The future. Because this one, this one i loved. And there is nowhere in this wretched body that could ever fit the remains of this star-glow ache.
Toes wriggling in the water, the way the dirt and mud and sand clings to the underside of my nails.
I don't always understand, you know, but I think the water is telling me that home is in the soil.
And the soil is under my nails.
When they do the autopsy they will find home under my fingers, I wonder if the roof will still be red. I wonder if the apple tree is going to blossom. Will my dead feet remember the hole next to the concrete?
So, it really is this time of year again, isn't it?
And I find my heartbeat is pulling me to my true north, god these compass veins. Babe, I always wanted to show you home. Even though home was matted carpets and dented walls. Even though the air tasted like mold and the water like winter mountains.
I think my sisters have the same ache for home. They just can't control their appetites.
Devour anything that reminds me of comfort.
Devour anyone who tastes like our soil.
God, I have wolves for sisters.
God, I have the moon for a mother.
God, I have beast tamer's hands for a father.
What does that make me?
When they do the autopsy,
Will the roof of my mouth be red?
I wonder what she's like. You know. The version of me in some parallel dream universe that was good enough for you to love, and I mean really, really love. It's not that you don't love me. It's not that I don't love you. And that's the real killer isn't it? That you smell like home and I want nothing more than to sell my soul to sink back into the arms of someone who makes me feel so unseen.
And somehow I don't think anyone has ever loved me like you did. Do. I don't know.
I wonder if her hair is long or short. Does she listen to the same music as me? Did you put the same ring on her finger or is her design the opposite in every way. Gold with rubies. Does her laugh sound like mine? I bet it does. I bet our eyes are the same shade. After all, she's me, isn't she?
I wonder what she did different.
And that version of you. Does he taste the same? Does his laughter fill the hollow of her marrow? When the sun hits his eyes is it like the stars aligning? Do you both speak your own language, tongues melding and honey sweet lips. Does she wait for the clunk of his key in the lock every night because you know he's going to be home and every second without his voice is torture?
All this to say
Fuck
Fuck but i love you
Fuck but I love her
Fuck but I wanted it so badly
Eight years. Eight years under my skin and my body searches for you in my sleep I wake up with my fists clawing the sheets trying to find a slip of your skin and it kills me it kills me it kills me. You kiss me on the forehead when I ask for a hug and tell me you love me and we both sign new leases and we both know it's over it's over it's over why didn't you love me then?
I hate her, you know. That girl in the mirror who dances with mirror you and shows off her sparkling ruby ring.
And I wonder. Am I the only version that couldn't make this work?
Sometimes people say right person wrong time. I think we might be a case of right person, wrong timeline.
It hurts more than I expected. I say the pains so confidentally and swallow the broken glass rattling in my throat. Stop cutting me up. Stop ripping open the wounds. I am fine, I tell the stars.
It just hurts, ya know.
Even most stars get to keep their siblings.
And here I am, so akin our Sun. Or maybe I'm Jupiter. Little Star-to-be who just wasnt bright enough, close enough, good enough.
So, I get it Jupiter. You didn't get to burn and it hurts doesnt it? Take all those wives, all those moons. Maybe if you have enough you can pretend theyre planets. Look Jupiter, we're both stars! We both have people who revolve around us and rely on us. But we will never be enough to give them life, will we?
Jupiter when you were forming all that ash and compression and force, did it hurt? Is it like skinning your knees or breaking a bone? Temporary but memorable.
Yeah, me too.
Hey,
When this all dies and we are remade and reformed,
I hope you get to be a star.
And maybe I'll have siblings who love me.

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I want my soul to be like a clear lake. Glassy, glimmering, studded with starlight and promising of depth and siren songs.
“I don’t regret it,” He tells me in the half-light, eyes glimmering with something ancient and painful, and what he means is: I wouldn’t take it back.