Feeling of small.
Of no help.
To no one at all.
Of hiding from none seeking.
Of not talking to God.
Of pressure mounting against bleeding molars.
Of snipping red skin off the white sides of a torn tongue.
Of being young but not young, not grown.
Of being too close to some impossible place.
To reach to quit. To need to quit.
Of wanting to.
Of knowing quitting is better than all options staring in your face.
Of only ever feeling home alone.
But even then, there,
feeling out of place.
Land takes its first drink of water in a good long while. Takes bites out of dust caking cars like pale rust across abandoned metal. Spits it out. Against the ground. Gifted back to brimming oceans like they needed it. As if they hadn’t seeded it. In swollen clouds breeding it. And how it came on perfectly too late. Filled it full of epidural and induced legs wide, to weep life through a wound and glimpse light coming too soon and painting hot pink across flaming horizons. We needed this rain. The hour was growing too late. Long past expected due dates. But we asked for it, we did not demand. We prayed, like we do not understand if it is God or Man we pray to. Besides, words don’t inspire worlds to cry. Dancing does. Imagining the rhythmic pattering of tear drops in clear plops bouncing oak paws and poplar claws and burnt maple stars alike. You hear it in your head. You thank it with your legs. You move to the music you want to, whether or not it is true. Besides, seeing you dance that way, like a fool, like you have affliction, is a far more promising method of drawing out musicians.