Sawyer Fell

He said he still believes in God.

and I asked, “What for, after all God has taken from us?”
and he said, “I am lucky to even have anything at all.”

I was born a star and raised to be dark matter.
Love the black holes from which I am close.
Glitched and out of touch, expansive dust.
Vastness and void of life, of a tender body.
Orbiting the world like the infinite ouroboros.

My friend mentioned she was sad to see the leaves drop. She said this as if the shedding oak trees were a disgrace to her. As if their nakedness wasn’t breathtaking in the eyes of an artist.

I am still determining who You are. This is similar to religion.
You do not have to be bone under flesh under clothes;
You can be the questions I ask when I am the only one in the room.

The gum sends down a burn to my throat,

I argue with myself if I love it or not.

Its spice is grown from lifeless pleasure,

and distaste has become a full dinner.

Is the rush to my head still worth it?

“Men are dogs,” I say to my friend as she kneels at the foot of her bed, like a child waiting for her mother’s strong arms. Yet, I am her friend tonight, so my scrawny arms make a cheap cradle.