life is starting to feel like the hunger games — how bloodthirsty gamemakers shake the earth just to break lulls. i’ve been thinking a lot about rupture amidst the resultant blaze. i’ve been choking on ashes, eating glass for breakfast. this stain now written in my fabric. my future a gaping unknown.
for so long, my life has felt foreign to me. i’ve been living deep in disguise, an arctic chameleon. what a relief, having only one self to manage now. as i chase the sun across the globe, it whispers to me in my stiller moments: there are poems inside you waiting to be written, words shaped like your journey’s sweeping curve. you could wake up every morning and find power in making yourself anew. you could make an art of this precarious life. you could build an empire.