Coiled upon itself, the field squeezes into a fierce geometry

of a room too bright for my comfort

where shadows of all the things unsaid dully drip like molten glass –

here, I grant myself the recklessness of hatred,

aimed squarely at the wilting vision I've become –

alone, unloved, uncared for –

yes, I sign the parchment of despair, carve inscriptions into the smoke in my head:

let me be weak, let me be blank, let me sleep in my ordinariness.

OUTRAGEOUS! I roar to the walls reverberating back to my brain.

​

And so, I descend –

into the search for my specialness

at the edges of existence, the brittle corners of my own invention.

I dig past the glittered masks,

past the funhouse mirrors,

until, deep in the marrow of my unbecoming,

where my roots writhe with dirt – neither golden nor cursed –

I dig up my dust-pumping heart –

and see that my specialness is my being here,

being alive,

being the same as everyone else.

Through tears that strip me bare of all pain, I cast the spells of breaking dawn –

​until I see myself as human –

boring, mundane, born from the soil.

At midnight, I bloom –

into the low and steady pulse,

into the cell of a stem curling toward the impossible sun,

a bee drunk on the dream of nectar and joy.