My Inner Child is Now an Angsty Teenager…

I awoke this morning with a

stillness.

The result of

that

diaphanous way

hope

leaves

the body

and sadness pours in,

inundating the rhizomatous cracks,

and every

bottomless

void—

Inflaming long forgotten wounds

with new traumas.

The quiet,

this silence.

It settled in with such an

indignant fortitude,

it told me I betrayed myself.

Now,

as my stillness turns to ice,

and I retreat to the fortress from which I survey,

I thank you for

the spark and kindling of the sun,

but it was

our potential for a

supernova

that lured me out

and

the stillness

it

brings.

Head of Hair

I lie awake in the dark,

My eyes expressing warm silk ribbons of tears.

I stroke your hair: long, coarse, unkempt.

A veritable nest of the day’s activities

And of the day before

And of every other day before this one.

I scratch your scalp gently, lovingly

And I am not surprised that even in your sleep

You are capable of filling the most miniscule of voids:

Beneath my fingernails is the purest of grime.

A concoction of dirt and dried skin

Saturated in sweat and sunlight.

I pull you closer to me,

Careful not to pull you back into me.

I can smell your hair now,

It’s sour, earthy—like the way it smelled

After playing in the rain that summer evening.

Tomorrow,

while I’m cleaning my own body,

Washing and braiding my own hair,

Cleaning your skin,

Washing and braiding your hair

Will be my intention.