Showering with the lights off.
Holding your breath beneath miles of ocean.
Crying until you can no longer breathe.
Swimming your muscles numb.
April 20th. 2010. Oil spill. Football fields of black and debris.
We made headlines.
I guess I forgot to think of humans as chemical reactions until I was reminded of the first time unholy things sparked from your mouth, knowing that you must be the conductor and, I, the charge.
When I learned about combustion in science class, I thought of the death of entire planets and the day we forgot how to say each other’s names like bible verses.
All carbon dioxide and water.
We seemed to fall apart.
Last night, I forgot what it meant to be held together by my own gravity; to be minuscule and massive, simple and complex beyond knowledge.
What it meant to have radiating energy, to come near exploding; to spend life changing, rotating, and moving.
Suddenly, I was sent hurdling.
This morning, I found sea salt caked on my wrists; a sign that the sky was darkening once more.
Talk into the sea shells. Ask the tops of my thighs, my crushed collar bones; ask my teeth cracked, acid eroded knuckles.
Ask the people who utter my name with pure rage.
They will tell you: I used to be apologetic, once.
I self-destruct in miniature ways each day.
I was never afraid of the idea of collapse.