A new year,
and we still bleed the same.

We revel in our beginnings.
We hold our baptisms holy
in our chests,
imprison the promise of renewal
sacred against our ribs.

We want to forget,
oh god, we want to forget
the year of hollowing ourselves,
of stretching out 
on the sacrificial altar,
clawing against the stone,
as the world withered around us.

We think we have shut 
the old gods out.
We pluck our names 
from their tongues,
We bite through their wrists
and free our fingers once more.

We pretend we have truly washed
the dried blood from our hands.

We pretend we are clean.

You want to hear a story about hunger?

I steal love by the handfuls,
grasp it with greedy fists.
I try to spread it out across a year, 
spread it too thin,
try to nourish myself,
and it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.

You want to hear a story about holiness?

We turn love into a sacrament,
a ritual of flushed bodies, 
searching for religion in the bruises
blooming on our throats.
We leave God in the dust
and anoint ourselves with sweat.

You want to hear a story about home?

We bring our love to the river
and build around it. 
We pretend we are safe, 
that our feet are nailed down,
that we won’t wake up
with empty hands.

You hold my hand for comfort
and it feels like saving grace,
it feels like eternity,
like childhood running wild
across my mind.

I hold your hand for an anchor,
and it feels like bravery is taking 
her first shaking steps.

Momma, the world is so cruel sometimes.
Momma, aren’t we all just scraping by?

You gave me a universe 
to foster inside my body,
and the stars are spelling out hope.

I stretched your body
and I took life freely.
I see the sky because of you
and it is glorious
and it is celestial
and the sun is shining
from behind your eyes.

Momma, your heart is growing flowers.
Momma, your love burns like the light.