I do not know why I was composed of flower-stem bones and leftover dust. I do not know why my ribcage is constantly fluttering or why my eyes are two different shades of the same reflection. I do not know why the universe harbours tiny galaxies and nebulas that glitter with lost intentions and disperse with the ache of being chronically lost. I do not know why Earth is blue upon blue upon blue or why we’re pushing for grey skies the colour our lungs will be once we return to the soil.
All I know is the realm of my tiny, insignificant body—my shaky, pale extremities, my surviving organs and pumping blood. Each day, I remind myself to be thankful that my spine is no longer riddled with strings and ropes and ties and that I stand up straight on my own. It’s easy to take the little things for granted when you spend your time lingering on meteorites and nebulas rather than what rests between your bones and flesh.
Cut me open and I will spill blood the colour of my imagination. Break my bones and I will dissipate into dust as shiny as snow in December. Reach beneath my sternum and feel my heart working like a steam engine.
I do not know much beyond the boundaries of my flesh and fingernails, but I do know that I will run until my flower-stem bones wilt and I once again fuel the Earth with my leftover dust.
[I’m very tired and a little sad but ily]
