stormfront kintsugi
when there’s nothing there to quantify the way it feels to be
dying
how does that make your heart feel? i guess
it isn’t beating
the right rhythm to mean something
real enough.
but how does it make your heart feel? like the sound
of a freight train outside my open window
at midnight, drowning out every sound with a deafening
desperation
to arrive.
but how does it make your heart feel? like the crack
of lightning hitting the sea two miles out
counting down from the thunder and i wonder
how the lightning makes the water feel
and if my heart feels that way
too.
but how does it make your heart feel? like i’m alone
in a crowd of people with a hundred
Good Enough reasons to
feel
the way they do and i stand there and believe that i
don’t deserve to feel that way too.
and that makes my heart feel
broken
like the ocean, at the moment
of the lightning strike.
one day, to piece together
the way my heart feels
with superglue and gold dust and call myself
kintsugi
one day, to watch
The ocean knit itself whole
one day, to watch something green
grow, after the storm.
dying
how does that make your heart feel? i guess
it isn’t beating
the right rhythm to mean something
real enough.
but how does it make your heart feel? like the sound
of a freight train outside my open window
at midnight, drowning out every sound with a deafening
desperation
to arrive.
but how does it make your heart feel? like the crack
of lightning hitting the sea two miles out
counting down from the thunder and i wonder
how the lightning makes the water feel
and if my heart feels that way
too.
but how does it make your heart feel? like i’m alone
in a crowd of people with a hundred
Good Enough reasons to
feel
the way they do and i stand there and believe that i
don’t deserve to feel that way too.
and that makes my heart feel
broken
like the ocean, at the moment
of the lightning strike.
one day, to piece together
the way my heart feels
with superglue and gold dust and call myself
kintsugi
one day, to watch
The ocean knit itself whole
one day, to watch something green
grow, after the storm.
fractured moonlight
through fractured moonlight, they see me
and call the bleeding edges
resilience, call the the prisms
proof
of my magic, call the dancing light
my own
as if the broken glass reflecting back my image
from a thousand angles
built some ragged castle for my soul to inhabit
as if these shards could capture me in essence
more easily
than the resonant trumpeting of truth
that brought down the greenhouse walls
to begin with - letting
the ivy climb wild amidst the kitchen garden
thyme and clovers twining with the pumpkin vines.
i laugh, to think that the truth of me
could be found
in the broken glass
and not the plants growing wild
for its breaking.
i laugh, at the fantasy
that i dwell in pale remnants
and not the heady breath
of what i’ve set free.
i laugh, with the ivy and thyme -
growing wild,
at the shadows on cave walls, at the sharp
and dusty lies reflected back
to where i stand, surrounded
by the broken glass
they call resilience, they call magic, they call
strength, and i laugh
because the ivy, and the thyme, and the vines
shimmer with dew in the moonlight
whole and growing.
in the shimmering dew, under the full spectrum
of the moon
i see myself shine back
whole
and growing, too.
and call the bleeding edges
resilience, call the the prisms
proof
of my magic, call the dancing light
my own
as if the broken glass reflecting back my image
from a thousand angles
built some ragged castle for my soul to inhabit
as if these shards could capture me in essence
more easily
than the resonant trumpeting of truth
that brought down the greenhouse walls
to begin with - letting
the ivy climb wild amidst the kitchen garden
thyme and clovers twining with the pumpkin vines.
i laugh, to think that the truth of me
could be found
in the broken glass
and not the plants growing wild
for its breaking.
i laugh, at the fantasy
that i dwell in pale remnants
and not the heady breath
of what i’ve set free.
i laugh, with the ivy and thyme -
growing wild,
at the shadows on cave walls, at the sharp
and dusty lies reflected back
to where i stand, surrounded
by the broken glass
they call resilience, they call magic, they call
strength, and i laugh
because the ivy, and the thyme, and the vines
shimmer with dew in the moonlight
whole and growing.
in the shimmering dew, under the full spectrum
of the moon
i see myself shine back
whole
and growing, too.
Jess Roses (she/her) is a chronically ill writer and artist. She takes inspiration from her experiences and shares her creativity in hopes of reaching those who feel unseen. Her work focuses on transforming relationships with pain, giving voice to the taboo of suffering, and exploring how these communal experiences relate to systematic power structures and institutions within and without the human psyche. She has been writing for 10 years, and her work has been published in Ghost Girls Zine. Her instagram handle is @jessrosesofficial.