“I speak like someone drowning — no, like a fish choking on its own sea.”
— Marina Tsvetaeva
i wish my longing didn't make me undigestible.
i wish there were scriptures i could follow to return home.
i wish i cared about the pieces that i kept giving away.
i wish i could choose being worshipped instead of kneeling.
but my longing only ever serves me.
i ration reassurance by memorizing the old threads,
chanting to myself that i still matter,
over and over again.
the stranger on the street walks unaware
of the ritual i already performed in my head.
nothing will ever be the same.
there are many gods i kneel to,
but many forget.
all my love is a selfless offering
except when it's kept.
to have a reasonable amount of want
is in itself a prayer up in the air.
having made sanctums out of people,
deities out of what was—
there is little i do not worship now.
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