Dust, by Amelia Thomas

my mouth is filled with dust and i want to reclaim the new— i  

plead to be heard by the soot, by the particles that have nestled in

the crevice between my lips, the nook beside my throat, the walls 

of my lungs— i wish to reside in the aura illuminating from me, 

but only from me, to plunge my being into the soil of a new world, 

and flourish side by side with the cherry blossoms. to reach for the

stars and watch them prance along the scarred flesh of my 

forearms, inhaling and inhaling and exhaling and breathing the dust 

of who i used to be, who i refuse to be anymore.

a breaking light filters through my broken, shattered ribs 

and casts shadows down my middle, shadows across my 

bones— the shimmer catches the eye of a raven, sleek 

and black, and pure but black as she pecks at my liver, 

the vulnerability.

plucking feathers from her own hide and placing them

upon the fleshy yellow spots, the gashes and the gnaws. 

a memorial to my ashes of the past.

and i build from the ashes, a molehill to a mountain range, 

a wary way is sure and silent but pays off in great rewards 

and the dust that weighs like shackles on my wrists, 

staking me to the ground, round in baked blood, will build 

me an army in time. my mouth is filled with dust and i

will reclaim the new—