My youthful body feels so old or perhaps just familiar.
Twenty years I've spent burning bridges with my eyes, igniting towns, and pillaging from those who needed most.
I raped women and turned men to stone.
I burned homes. I aroused.
I was the sound of thundering hooves
carving trenches and grooves into the virgin land.
I was destruction.
How many soldiers did I kill?
I've created a wasteland and there's no one left here now.
I am barren and frigid. I am hollow and gelid.
I am the metallic taste in the back of your throat. I am the tar that clogs your lungs and chokes your breath. I am a swamp.
I am cursed. I've boiled my blood and burned myself at the stake; fat spitting in a pan. I vomited – I thought it would cleanse. I melted ice into the dirt with the grunt of a rapist. Sweating like a stallion in the cool white sheets – I leave a stain.
Once, I gutted a fish to see if I could slice the scales like my own skin. And then,
the flood. Thunderwous waves crashing down the coast. Exstingushied flames, swept away glass, soothes burns, it kissed me. My wounds healed with the salt water and the tide carried gifts for me to collect as it once did when I was a child.
My palm became a starfish in my mother's hand, squirming with the desperation to live. The singing sand became my crafting clay, my melancolic muse.
I am an artist! An architect! I build towns and create masterpieces.
I write my name in the pebbles. Later, I counted the constellations and realized the perfect number.
The virus is gone, the fever has passed. Begone with the harsh angles and joints! I hold circles. They are complete.
I am a sphere I am the Earth I am the Sun I am whole
Today, I trace the abandoned train tracks on my body and wonder why they feel like home.