we were young gods
all knees and elbows at
wrong angles and
lungs that felt too small
when the cold got inÂ
past ill tied scarves and
fumbled buttons but
lungs that felt too impossibly
large when our breath tumbled out
in clouds and curls, little
offerings we made to ourselves
before we had altars
and names
When I get overwhelmed, I organize. Pull everything out and put it back better until the dull flighty hum in my body is replaced with the ache of all the things I’ve moved. January I’m Atlas, playing
You are carrying the weight of billions of years living. Is it a wonder you are tired? You are half graveyard, child, What didn’t kill you became you you took ownership of death told it to find you in