The cicadas are screaming again,
and the air tastes like rusted pennies.
I keep my sins in mason jars,
lined up neat on the crooked kitchen shelf.
Last night,
I dreamt the magnolias opened their throats to swallow me wholeβ
petals slick and white as the inside of bone.
They say I carry storms in my blood,
but I know better:
itβs not rain, itβs rot,
something tender gone to spoil.
The mirror swears Iβm still alive,
but my reflection looks like itβs lying.
I would salt the earth for you,
dig up the roots with my bare hands,
and lay my heart there,
raw and thrashing,
like an animal that just won’t die.
πππππππππππ€ 