Blame it on the years, she said.
I harden with each
page flip of the calendar.

I am strong but not
courageous, she said. I do not move,
instead endure. No shame

in withstanding the weather
beating rain, beating sun
Yet I yearn for

impact, she said. Expose me–

long lost under layers,
firmed sediment, pressed powder,
insidious sand–

to the wind. It takes more
than your pitying eyes
to crack me open–

she plead. Fuck me
like you want to
break me.

I’m no astronaut. I need the press
of gravitational pull, gravel-
scraped stripes on my knees, heels
of my hands, black with bubbled blood,
embedded dirt. I crave the clean
sting of alcohol, the jangle of a knock
to the head, the tang of tongue-
probed skin ragged where my teeth
pierced my lip
upon impact.

Satellite. Planet. Grave.

It’s not pretty, but this blue bruise
is nothing less than fulsome proof
of puncture, ill-fated flight. You might
think every insect wishes for wings,
but if I could not strain against
the tether tied tightly to
my heart’s umbilicus, acquiesce
to the taut snap of recoil, there
would be nothing left
for me to want.