Poetry | Journal

The days we fight gravity are the predecessors to well earned nights.

Where the gravitation of the moon seems to rip us from beneath our skin

so we may breathe the cleanest drags of stardust possible,

those are the nights we stay alive for.

These are the days we earn entry.

Hours spent holding our lead hearts with our stomach

strengthen our minds the way Olympians train their hands for war.

Tears that seem to erupt unannounced cleanse us for a fresh start.

That is the goal, is it not?

To become mothers of ourselves as we chose how this pain will shape our rebirth.

To live on and live beyond our inner stories and self,

to create and spread physical droppings of our invisible worth

within the minds and mindful lives of others less burdened by themselves

so on the day of their first fight with gravity they feel our tether reaching out

to them, assuring the new traveler, together, we can feel our way through the dark.

We will embrace the limpid sensation of exhaustion jaw-vicing our chests,

we will subsume the fatigue cast over us like a bird adapting to storm winds,

recalcitrant, tenacious, brazen yet patient with our minds

until a palpable release sets us soaring into the night we have earned.

We are star chasers in mid-day darkness,

We are a galaxy of survivors on the horizon.