and swallowed whole
into the earth that birthed my wayward pneuma;
the old thing —
cracked, jagged, and charcoal.
Thought and desire war, squirming under my skin;
weird, voluminous, wrong.
I feel incomplete, un-whole.
And then, she’s there – a sharp, devastating ache.
She’s a tempest —
a sense of chaos, madness, the curling of toes.
Hot and uncomfortable as noon I lay here,
under this flimsy skin,
fostering hideousness and hope.
Hit by an edge of defiant anathema every now and then;
it rots with me —
shameful, ugly, vacant, and cold.
If her skin crawled up to me,
we’d collide —
hands, lips, hearts, and throats.
With heavy breaths and a quivering consciousness,
our senses fractured and dissovled,
we’d slip under the earth – soil and petrichor.
[Featured Image: Heitor Magno]