the birds know that cold shit ain’t right,
flood their way to warmer skies, spoon themselves
across the equator two at a time and i
fly in the other direction–
to the cold // crisp // dirty
snow that’s been dragged through arctic mud a thousand times.
sweat steams off my forehead,
escapes into eyebrows for just a moment of rest.
i wasn’t made for rest
the way the birds were
taking their sunny vacations at the first sight of snow.
“if you want something no one has, you must do what no one has done.”
i become an explorer, searching
for the aurora borealis under my skin
so i can become light itself.
i will have a feast upon my flesh
picking, searching for something beyond myself to offer to the stars
and when my motivation is filled with holes,
the cold will creep into the hollows of my bones
and inescapable madness will burrow its way into my nervous system.
the principle of entropy:
we have a habit of watching things rot.
i melt under pressure like ice cubes in the palm of a hand.
i search for starlight in my esophagus
to release it in the dead of night with a ceremonious scream
asking the ancients if i will be remembered
past my time.