There is so much comfort in knowing

that what I hold closest to me
cannot be taken away.

And no, it is not another body
this time, (or any time, really)–

despite the changing seasons
(they arrive more rapid-fire now,
these days more noticeable)

there is one thing that remains
as constant as earth, as rooted
as the branches of my family tree,
as fixed as the sepia-toned ancestors
that hang from the wall in all
of their foreign strangeness:

it is this condition
of being more fire than girl
more distant artist than reliable friend
always more chasing the fever dream
than sitting still with the reality
like I should.

I love that nothing
can steal this from me, this
wild woman magic I write
and carry and spill and bleed
and gift and ruin and become

only for hands that
are deserving to hold this

uncharted, wounded animal
I am

so much
you cannot take,

I am.

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