puncture — things longer than a paragraph
still need be said.

birth

and i won’t hold on to anything. no more cajoling, steering, encouraging or death grips. there were too many years of that. i will take what is given and the rest of it, what was wanted, needed, or feared will wash away, forgotten. and i won’t split my energy on scarcity, or uniqueness, or ugly need. i won’t drain myself into the sea of should’ve been, wished it was, or ought to be. there were too many years of that. i’ll sit with fuller lungs and watch and wait till the nonsense i call me breaks apart, scatters, and becomes dark august soils, green mountain run-off, or the tiny beating heart driving a solitary dung beetle. or air. or the cold wetness on the soft palm of a hand of fresh snow. or the fibrous tissue of an intestinal wall shivering nutrients, or the electricity that carries the thought of love to a horrified mind. or the soft hair of a fat belly, or the silver-solder completing the circuit or should chance be so kind to atoms such as these, the life-giving pure energy of sunlight. for each need now will be new and specific to each cause, and each possibility birthed by each constraint. and i won’t hold on to any thing.