tiger stripes and lungs of black and why you're always made of ash

i am a little folded child sitting in the tungsten light. back pressed to the concrete, cigarette in a dirty shaking hand. i am clutching a book that was written for me. i know it was.

little child covered in ash, who made you so you can't wear skirts without tights. who made that shame and disgust boil and spread through your quavering limbs. this is not your cross but it is yours to carry. only your bones are real. the evanescing smoke. the whisper of the wind in the grass.

numb my heart and numb my brain. the words come from somewhere deep and flow through my hands like cool water. desert doesn't soak it up enough.

sunlight, grass and stone. the fading honey golden light. and words, words in my head. this is all of it and this is what's real. well. rather, all the joy i can feel.

atlas, the globe on his shoulders, tricked into taking it back. this is not my cross to bear but i am made to bear it.