Every story that walks silently into a room.
Imagining how deep each river must run but is not destined to run so deep.
Unanswered questions of fear; answered questions with hate.
Victimhood, and how those most entitled to it refuse to inhabit it.
How it is not about my broken heart. It is not about yours.
How paper curls and refuses to undo itself from its buckle.
How bodies curl and refuse to revive themselves.
Navigating every second. Seconds – easy to come by yet over so quickly.
A second one comes, and again, it is over.
The hawk on the tree, robbed of her dinner by humans sensitive to small creatures –
The dry look on her face telling me to stop worrying –
Imploring me to look away, when staring gives me some sort of satisfaction –
Allowing me to continue my gaze, because at the end of the day she doesn’t need me.
I only wanted to be a stream.
And now – a lusty waterfall whose heart breaks at each question, second, and hawk.
A broken heart (breastbone) that is made to break –
I am not the point.
The heat swells and reminds us of those who have no refuge.
It breaks and we forget.
Every hawk is looking for dinner.
Every story does not aspire to be told.