theia mania, a poem

The dirt under my nails lived longer than me.It burned underneath their feet— wandering through the sea.

You told me to stop dreaming.

That i am getting old, and it's time to stop grasping to nature's leftovers.

I should wash my hands watch life drifting down the drain.

I should cut my hair. I should stop gazing at the stars whenever I need

directions.

You don't understand me. I AM A BRAND NEW SOUL. Fresh out of Venus' seafoam sickness.

I am young/ and ripe/ and i do not need, i do not desire to be chewable. Do not swallow my bones—they are made of stardust —i am sticky pearls

under the sun.

The spirals on my fingers have been here eversince the cosmos agreed to

exist

Yes/i do. And so, hope was born/ and my soul came from its DIRT.

THE SOIL is all that i am. Birth/death/hope/dead

forever. growing.

With my eyes gripping stars my mouth mumbling prophecies and the proof of eternity underneath my chipped bubble gum red nails.

Do not tell me to grow old when you don't know the first thing about life. The veins. The sticky-sweet kisses. The bitter drinks. The cosmos.

The soil. THE SUN. THE POETRY.

Don't you dare tell me to give up on me—, i am a dreamer, of the worst kind.