An Ode To 25

Long live that first quarter year;
I still haven’t unpacked you yet, 
there are boxes lingering in the corners. 
You were like three years smashed into one,
that I spent mostly in black, 
or sunk to the porch cuddled knees on the brick.
How many times did my lungs ask me to rest, 
but my fingertips wouldn’t quit? 
How many nights did I climb to the rooftop trying 
to harness the moon, and when I couldn’t 
I shed a layer like purging bile
and wiped the grief from my hairline.
You were the year I learned to harvest
onions from tears like it was illegal
and used it as an astringent on my mind. 
My left eye began twitching. 
The callous in the crevice of my foots arch broke, 
and scabbed over. I peeled it away, 
and let each pore aerate. 
I was gifted miracles as roadblocks.
I was gifted space. 
I found my dreams left pins and needles 
in the tips of my toes at night.
I awoke to my skins response in morse code; 

S.

O.

S.

.ham