Prism

Dear Survivor,

You are one struck match away from a forest fire
you are the frayed sweater      catching on the handle
you are the stone chip in the windshield      the slow spiderweb at every jolt
you are the finch nest on the power line. You wake, every day, to a balancing act. To live wires.

You are a prism of triggers, now.

You are the melody making sense of the broken hive. You are also the swarm.
You are the butcher’s block. You are also the knife.
You are the raincoat     tracing shapes in the violence.

Dear Survivor,

We          are simple machines,
piecing together courage from spare parts
this junk yard orchard is real. We live through our days with pockets of bolts
you are not crushed. You are not done. I have lived in this mouth of metal
I have bolts, Survivor. Take them.

This is the aftermath we live through together.

What collapsed you is made of broken things,
do not waste your light on his crypsis.

If staying down is the anthem to your rebuilding
stay down, Survivor
we do not dictate the colours of your reconstruction
we will lie down with you.

Sometimes all the avalanche needs is a witness.

I see you.
I see you.

Dear Survivor,

I see you.

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