more

i entertain myself

with the most radical thought

i've ever had:

maybe i am enough.

maybe these words i write

aren't just roadkill

plastered on paper.

maybe my carcass

is art.

could it be?

could i be more

than nothing?

could my chapped knuckles

build gods?

what if i'm

as bright as

the sun?

----

i remember

the words of the boy

whose hair sagged below

his eyes,

who i never appreciated

as much as i should have.

"i mean your face is already fucking poetry

and they were writing novels about the damage it did

to lovelust boys

long before you were born.

fucking hell,

there are so many places

i'd like to touch.

you're a fucking map

and i am homesick for every place i haven't laid my fingers on

and your voice rumbles shrill like an earthquake so great i hope the waves take me in.

you are art

and nature

and thunder

and the sound of my heart as it breaks against my ribcage.

don't let anyone tell you different."

i pick at the thoughts

under my nail beds

and i am left wondering

if oceans can contain me