Say, this earth never wants the clay mold

Or won't hold on to it like we do.

Because the night star fades each time it catches the glimpse of the rising moon; the river holds her hand and her body is glistening, holy, joyous in the reflection.

Because the moon blinds herself looking at the sun as it takes up the morning sky: lit from within, lacking an influence, stretching herself fearlessly as the clouds carry her limbs.

In Genesis, we learnt about the making. Pure, godly construction of the world and its beginners. Ache first, but then skin to feel. Grief next, but here are the birds to feed. Still, awake in this lamplight, I see the author carefully skip a page on the imprints they leave by, and the ever abhorrent wanting to fit in. At the ripe age of 9, I had learnt that to write letters that don't seem alike as your dad’s or your teachers is near blasphemy, that to exist or produce your own is a form of sin. This disappointment is slow and slippery; it fills in like the aftermath of the fall from the dancer, like your father's bloodshot eyes. Like a grandfather that calls you boy names, wanting anything but girlhood near his house. It is easier to pretend than to cease your existence.

Ache first, yes, but being forever in pursuit of a home leaves you with torn scabs. So maybe yes, being you is godliness, and maybe being shamelessly you even more. 

 But like honey in a jar, I wish you to find me reeking 

of the sweetness, of fluidity, 

of laying into the right identity that fits like a glove. 

As to when the jar arrives, is a question to the sun, and all things that could care less about filling up somebody's impressions.

Author's Note

yo ik this shouldnt be under story thing but idk if it can be considered poetry so i just put it under the story tag shpuld i put proses under this tag?? no clue