by Janae Gamarai. i ask him if he could fall in love with me, somewhere or in some other time. he laughs, and my breath becomes a ghost in my throat, the words a tomb waiting to be set free. i swallow the unsaid conversation whole, let it rest in the pit of my stomach. digest. break down and multiply like the dirt beneath our feet. he laughs, and i laugh, and we are bent over, sides splitting with the uncomfort of it. how funny, all of that potential. how funny, all of that pain. ii. there is no apology for the way i live beneath the soil, beneath the blood and the sweat and the hungry creatures lying in wait for all of it. an image's negative is still the image, just in some other universe where everything is the same, but different. am i not a negative of myself, from somewhere else? do i not react in the wrong way to everything? laugh when i should cry? stumble and fall when i should walk straight? do i not exist where everything tells me i should not? make a home in the ground, call it freedom? live when i should die, call it a seance in which i attempt to make peace with everything that never was? iii. in the emtpiness, the only thing to call you back is your beloved. iv. there is no dark, desperate thing hiding in the space between my lungs. this must be where fear lives. this must be where hurt becomes. who knew that magic could look like this, so beautiful and bloody and demanding a place inside of an empty body that houses nothing, not even the thing that smells of sunrise? he says, i love you but not with his mouth. i laugh. i say, sure and my tongue becomes an army of bees, becomes an angry buzzing, becomes every loud thing screaming to remind you that it's alive. v. the story goes like this: i am everything and nothing all at once. the land makes its peace with me.
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