I’m turning to stone by the eyes of the witch, but the only eyes here are mine. Looking too closely for too long at my own design, focused on how other I am, my body no longer knows how to pretend to be human.
Is this my skin turning into a cosmic egg to incubate my soul once more for a new form; Liquidating my bones and nerves worn raw from shapeshifting too many times under one sheathe?
To become a wolf in the night, forever starving for a good chase after decades spent in the throes of transformation. The agony of dying slowly only to be born again, as one violence gives way to another, over and over, in the cycle of life.
Or to be finally finished with this bloody beingness, ready to be a relic in the earth buried so deep I can feel her heart beating against every memory I hold. An aeon solid and sinking in the dirt never touched by light until the center of the planet becomes the only sun I know.
Or to be a home for dragons: a vast cave they will burst through with the might of their wings once they’ve grown in the pit of my heart, the only part of me that remains flesh in the end, to keep my babies warm with the memory of fire until they are strong enough to conquer the realms of men.
To break down or be broken open is a matter of perspective, and the only way from here is out.
Trying to fit Oblivion in a drinking glass makes for many sharp pieces. And it grows in the pain and blood every time someone forgets to watch where they step.
I was never these static surfaces named my own flesh and bones, but the thing that stewed in my depths, waiting to escape. I will swallow my pain and devour the world until all the fires are out and all the light is gone.
And there, in the peace of an infinite night, I will remember my heart beating and always seeding something new. I will look too close for too long until life awakens and another world takes shape around me. Water and stone and patches of earth I will birth for another journey of becoming.
Until then, I give thanks for the suffering in coming undone. For the wonders waiting on the other side of disintegration, we can never know, but there is always an inkling in the night sky and in the rhythm of curiosity thrumming in our eternal hearts.
© 2022, Sheya Forest