sometimes i wonder (honestly) if this will ever stop.
it swells between my lungs and my guts, and with every day it gets larger, and with each easement its recession is less great, and one day i feel that i will certainly have to tell you, to say it out loud where you can hear.
this is a full-moon tide that quite casually swept me onto my back, just under the surface. this is a parent who rocked me gently against their chest, watched with concern but no undue worry as my breasts swelled with blood, as my sight grew sharper and my ears rang, as i wretched spit and loam and as we were tied up in one another, tangled with bones snapping and words but no sound flowing gently between our foreheads because we know.
you know. and you’ve been singing to me with elk-bellow lungs where the air will not frost, where it’s too warm for the northern lights. and although i sweat through the nights and cover my arms against the sun i hear you. i promise.