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,
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,
Your skin will touch air, new breath,
To describe your birth,
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.
Continue reading “Salt in the Wound”
I want to curl up so hard my limbs stick together
Continue reading “Shapeless”
Like dough, like clay
Squeeze me together until the seams disappear
Lose my shape in your palms
Knead me smooth
Turn me over, and over and over
I’m raw potential now
Waiting for a chance to be something new
Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash
This is a part of my One More Verse series; you can find them all here.
Floating. Always floating; bobbing along the interstellar currents, cold winds from nearby stars buffeting them, breezing over their skin like a hot wash of fire, a blast furnace’s bellowing voice in the infinite dark. It was deep and rumbling, playing the same three low notes over, and over and-
The low beeping dug through Hara’s cryostasis like a needle, a strange mechanical noise in that murky fluid void-dream. It made them think about gutting the console again, but they knew they’d have to fix it afterwards. They managed a raspy mutter, palming the comms panel clumsily as they sat up against the pod, trying to breathe fire through aching lungs.
Continue reading “The Giants and the Pea”