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,
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—
– break my insides open and spill them on the sand
– Amelia Thomas
Amelia Thomas is a high school sophomore at the Orange County School of the Arts in the Creative Writing Conservatory. She enjoys listening to music while reading. She lives and writes on the Southern California coast.