I woke up at 2am, feeling sick from the heat, like my vinyl was warping and I breathed and a poem came to me in such a rush that it was sexual, painful, like being sucked to soreness and it made me curl, fetal, made me cry.
This is my monster finding its port, this is the siphoning, the spinning that brings revelation. This is the memory of fairy, of small blades, ogres, traipsing about astral planes, telling road stories and house stories. It comes to me. The muscle memory of the mind engages and I give way to what universes cannot contain. This is what I need to be: cold and still. Or hot and ill. All of the above.
By all the gods, there’s a grace in me that forgives.
Sometimes I think it forgives too much.
