I dream of something like the ocean

on Mars—water rising in my

throat.

I wake with the taste

of salt, fire, distance.

Hands like tides

breaking open across my skin.

Voices, clean and cold,

the closest I’ll ever

get to holy.

I go to sleep with thoughts

of safe places, and guns

larger than my pulse, their

bullets crying sorry as they

nest into flesh.

Blood that doesn’t drip—

just stays there and stares

as if I’ve done nothing wrong.

As if I were just stolen

and my soul is still

somewhere deep inside me.

I wake and breathe for

a second, and in that

second is an hour, and

in that hour is a year.

I feel okay. I feel terminal.

I listen closely to the empty

voices.

They are nothing compared

to mine.