The moon is dark but I can feel her throbbing in the black sky. A red pulse echoing a lineage of destruction. The necessary chaos to birth stars, spring, me.
I wiggle my body between two trees and breathe in the smell of their bark. Pressed in between their bodies, I remember myself.
This constriction is needed. If I am to spark, flare, fly through the air, there must be a constriction. A recoil. A place to turn in to myself for a hundred years, in one breathe. I must have the space for returning to that pulsing, waiting darkness.
And then the flare. The cracking thunder under my skin as I awake one morning. Shattering my ideas of myself. And nothing is ever again the same.
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