i don’t want to necessarily tell you my name.
it was given to me like yours was you
on the edges of a shock wave
riding its way through the spaces we occupy.
how does it feel escaping your lips(i don’t actually want to know).
if i say my name i name you implicitly.
the grass is wet and i run my hands through it.
they turn pink first, and then red, like a steak in reverse.
the rash becomes me.
if i say my name, the same thing happens.
if i don’t say my name, you’ll whisper one into my mouth.
i know what it feels like to live always on the verge
of passing out with it lodged in my throat.
so do you.
you don’t see the way the sky mocks you.
you’re too busy trying to become it.
i’ve given up on all of that.
i’m happy in the dirt.
well, not ‘happy’,
but somewhere outside of the need to be it.
there’s wind in my fingers.
i’m alive in new ways every day.
it’s terrifying and beautiful.