Written by Trini Rogando – Instagram: @trini.writes
we are waking at dusk to
be filled with the
cheshire light of stars. we are
pretending we can see the sun
until morning, waiting and waiting,
waxing and waxing—
none of us can really grasp a difference,
but still we squint. truly,
we are never honest. the only
candid person we know lives
in the future—and we are empty and yearning
for her always—but really
she has been dead for years. we are
scrambling through the dirt,
ground like rodents, and we are scrabbling
for blooms of breath in the phosphorus.
time is like this: a garden of gravesoil, shrouded by
ghosts whose tongues are dipped in sunlit gold.
we are trying to ignore our throats burning with
wrong words unsaid, our wrong lives living in the
wrong time; we keep rising and rising to
meet this feigning dawn
that has never really chosen us back.