I remember the entry:
the red, wet pain of it,
the exploding in my lungs.
I did not remember it while I
was still there, but here
now, I can feel it. The slap
of light, the deluge, the shit
and shit and tears. An opening, a bang
of sweetness. The years that followed,
as muscles bettered and nerves mored,
as thought thicked and beautied.
Til I could make and speak and run
and make and love. Til I made
love and unmade love and love
unmade me. I do not remember
the exit. I was there, and then I wasn't:
just so. What I miss most
is the fertile black of it under
my nails, the hot rain soaking through
everything, breezes strong enough
to buffet a body, the visceral, the honest,
the bliss: to stand on the side
of a mountain, silent, breathing every
atom in.
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