day 8: some sort of

I want it gone.

The crossbeams of your voice hold up the ceiling of your stare;
I can’t build my own home,
so my promise is to punch through miles of the best world
for someone like you.

When tides turn against, I can yawp about it across bays,
but receding waters yield nothing for scavengers.
When all calms,
I worry a hole in the cuff of my sleeve for waiting.

One thing I have never wanted to admit to myself is this:
I know it’s a lighthouse, it keeps circling back,
but the honeycomb case in my chest, crystallizing, only sees stars for itself.
It’s a goddamn lighthouse--it’s for anyone’s hope--no one is calling for me and me alone--
but I will always look for a beacon,
even when I have my own light to find my footing in the sand, in the dark.

I was always meant for solid ground
I go sailing past capes anyway to test myself

The waves here don’t threaten me
and the weather is good, for once,
but there is enough pitching on deck for a bad mood.
I still have to hang on, lest,
seasick, I drop into the sea.

I miss cider.
I miss cedar.

I want free.
It’s like a bad magnet in there.

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Excerpt/inspo from Leaflets by Adrienne Rich.