God of babies born with Jaundice and kept their first days in a box with blue light.
God of nauseous newborns still reeling from previous incarnations, who lift their heads too early and make the nurse cross herself and slam the door behind her.
Picking at your scalp God
God of mean eyed children who hold garbage tightly in grubby fists, who cry when adults finally pry their hands open over trash cans, who whisper goodbye to tarnished candy wrappers.
God of sour faced little girls who scream instead of wave goodbye -who don’t know the words to ask them not to go, and are called creature.
God of things that stare out of spite,
My own god,
send me that dream again.
That dream of a windmill in the mountains
with the ship in the waterway,
cold in summer, someone’s hand on my shoulder.
Send me that dream where my bile was balanced and
despite my nature,
It was sweet.
Waiting for Wormwood
At this point in this life I no longer care to achieve anything- I smother ambition with the weight of almost 8 billion lives-
I’m in a place where I don’t really have to try and survive -the call of the parasite- why would I create something ? When it seems eating this host to hollowness is programmed into my hands and my mouth ?
But it was prophesied that one day a medicinal star will come and
from the face of everything
And the body I’ve been sucking dry will be finally healthy and
Flowers will bloom in my absence
Lives in Minnesota where she explores the woods, the rivers, and dream incubation.