I can’t own a SunLit Sky

I have seeded beliefs that grow bigger than any tree in my garden. English has made me sick the whole time I’ve learned it.

I have moments–small and glossed. I’m at the cusp of being great. As a blaring and high-speed train, I feel myself approaching the station, but it’s at this time, the arrival— where all of a sudden things change. The ground begins to shake. The glass doors shatter. The ringing starts again and I’m no longer the passenger. Panicking, on an empty stomach, and searching sporadically for a driver's license.

I feel the anticipation of knowing nothing while knowing everything. Or what seems like everything– but then it all loops back and I’m dragged underwater.

No one gets me but the girl still inside me–for she’s in the same spiral, in a near area, under the right moon, sharing an infinite amount of longing.

Back on twenty. Big black car. I still can’t walk in a straight line.

The fog of fifteen is what I see, the fear of sixteen is all I feel.

“I hate this,” I say out loud. “But you’re in the best kind of season,” my friend tells me.

My friend has intuition. Everything she says is always like a secret voice speaking from my bones. She’s a believer just as much as I am and our eyes light up around the same time every now and then to remind me.

My relationship with God is a bit chaotic and carbonated. It’s my fault, I know. To be a believer you believe in the belief of believing. Kinda like love. And a little long time ago.

“What do you want, Nat?” she asks me at twenty-one. I blink and I try to speak. I want to shout, “Stop, Stop, don’t tell me, don’t say anything.”

I wanted to say this just as much as I wanted to say it back then.

“What do you want,” he tells me out of love.

We’re in mid-April and the air is sour. I’m standing and he’s not even staring. My skin is stiff like parchment and I didn’t know it then like I know it now, but I had intuition too. I tried to speak in a cool calm way, let’s take a deep breath, let’s go to sleep. Please just hold my hand. I love you and you love me and this is how it’s supposed to be. But the zombie rose in my throat and scratched me off.

I didn’t know you could tell someone a question until I was told. I thought questions were meant to be asked. I’ve also thought a lot about how a person can be one thing and another, and then both at the same time.

Sex is never the same and we both feel it. It’s gross and constrained. Like I’m in a box under a magnifying glass.

But what am I doing and what am I saying? God, the entire fucking thing felt like I was running late all the time or I was being left behind. Tears and Twilight. I wanna go home, so I drive home and it’s over.

I shift my pillow closer to the moon and call it a night.