I’ve torn at the train tracks outside my window so many nights, as if they could be the veins of the city. the storm clouds fill with milk but refuse to let their swollen bellies release. the power lines are diligently carrying information for us, blood carries oxygen to keep our cells alive. i want to escape to another city, so my skin can understand a new and foreign pollution, to let it fill my pores this dirtiness made from sources my blood doesnt know. its disjointed, this longing, a blocked valve with no chance of redirection, swelling until theres a rupture. fear, love, and desperation. how do they postmark our time, is it like freckles and moles across our skin, or more akin to cavities in our teeth? its like we’re all left behind in some kind of emptiness that presses us to each other. its crowded. the atoms surrounding us jostle for a closer position. the other day i swallowed the yolk whole, like i needed to absorb an artifact made for new life. how absurd, to eat that of the grounded avian, in hopes of flight. In this moment I feel like i could, just maybe, know myself more.