Like dying, yes.

There, I thought, maybe I will finally learn how to be cut without being breached.

And there, at last, maybe I will be a thing held and hummed and not forgotten, because I hear that you can’t be taken away against your will if you give yourself first.

Do you hear me? I’ll give myself. First. Already.

I swear it. I swear it, I do. I do. To the old gods and the new, to this word and the next and what comes after, to the stars that were only ever the tears of an unseen sun, to whatever else is watching when you don’t, I swear it.

To find this thing and lose myself to it, or lose myself in the searching. Which, I suppose, is the same thing.

Voice

A year then? Futility.

My heart tells me I have been voiceless forever and yesterday.

Forever and yesterday, the end feels so far behind, I imagine I am yet to cross it.

Faulty Taps

Dreams surface with filters and edits: mine come out gray scale. I sleep wearing clothes I do not own, with a face I do not own, a face that is not a face at all, but a grayish blur of flesh.

Did I dream it this way? I wonder.

I hold breath in, I remember the leaking, the endless leaking, I shiver. Cold washes over me. Not over me, but under, cold sweeps under my skin and over my bones and I shiver with an uncontrollable urge to laugh, as if I’m being tickled from the inside.

drip. drip. drip.