I want to speckle stars
on your lungs
to remind them:
there is no gravity in space.
Someday, we will get there.
and eons after, when I am gone
they will remind you what I have said.
“You were made for sieges,
You will outlast this war.”
You will outlast
I found a buried box.
In it, there were candies.
Candies, that tasted like flowers
sweet, like they used to smell.
You were telling me about
the end of of empires, talking
about living underground, unable to wait
for a call, but being able to feel
the Earth, rumble in your bones.
Knowing that there were dragons outside,
knowing, that our miracle was tasting flowers.
the homunculus inside of me has fled.
it is vomiting, sticking its head to the bucket
of its own putrid messes and cycling through
the entirety of its body,
and when I am no longer it,
when I come back to my own skin
I want to pick off each piece of it
fleck by fleck until it is raw
and you have never touched a single inch of it.
and then the barren rawness has me fleeing
urging me to sew myself up inside your skin
until the fey come and take me away.
the escape is a lie, and so is
an answer to whether truth or comfort
is the just and right decision.
I was made by gods who were not yours.
We do not share a parentage, a genealogy
transparency, a world of air
and lightness can hold corporeality
only in fleeting moments
I can share in your body and lusts.
But I cannot be made of them.
you are blue rolling waves without
the forgiveableness of a dolphin’s form.
I am already claimed.