Again.

And as your body falls apart around you,
What’s left will grow another;
Like carcinisation, it moves ever closer
To what we ought to be.

Pick up the shell you outgrew,
Frame it, burn it, write about it,
Take a photo that sits lifeless
In a book, forgotten, on the shelf.

Feel the ground like gospel;
It’s never been this new.
Dig deep with digits unfamiliar
Unearth something wholly.

Stumble, pick yourself up.
Stumble, get up again.
Stutter, crack, stumble,
Get. Up.

again. And again. And a

Gain ground from the past
Take light from the future
Molding life out of inanimate
Like you’re your own god.

One day, too, your skin will shed
You’ll molt and peel out, fresh,
New.
Your skin will touch air, new breath,
New words,
To describe your birth,
Again

and

a
g
a
I
n
.

Salt in the Wound

Photo by Matheo JBT on Unsplash

This is a part of my Fourth Age Witches series; you can find them all here. The protagonist Calfin uses the neopronouns ze/zim/zir.


The old ship groaned in the whipping wind, always threatening to tip over but never following through.

Yet, thought Calfin, Always yet.

Ze took a look through one of the portholes, scratched on one side and covered with candle soot and ages-old grime on the other. The dried lake looked much the same as it had the past day, last month and the summer before: tediously barren, with a hint of unguided malice to anything that found itself stranded there. No trace of the trio yet.

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