where i sit
this is where i sit
this uncomfortable, uneven, seat of moss
that is not quite big enough
so i have to scrunch up my knees
and hug them close to my chest
hold them tight and examine each one of their scars the dirt smeared across my skin
stuck by sweat
the baby pink flesh
where i have been cut and healed again
this, this throne of loose peat moss and
insects
i feel them crawl up my legs
but i don’t care
because this is where i sit
this seat is mine

this is where i sit
the bow of a ship
that slices through the fog
this damp cushion
wet from the rain and sea foam
i came out to escape the thoughts
but the wind blows them right back at me and it plays with my hair as it leaves
this is where i clutch my book
not to read
but to ward off bad spirits
or talkative passerby
the water is murky and it seems
i’ll never be dry
but i don’t care
because this is where i sit
this seat is mine

this is where i sit
the backseat of a car
the road that endlessly blurs
my phone is dead
and so is the conversation
and the only thing i can listen to
is the uncomfortable, uneven silence the loud kind of silence
the one that fills the gaps
left by harsh dissonance
but here i sit
in my fortress of suitcases
and pillows and luggage
and the bags in the wheel well and under my eyes
this is where i sit
stare at my reflection in
the stagnant pool of her words and realize
that i look like my mother
but i don’t care
because this is where i sit
this seat is mine