I am an embryonic shell, still. Lukewarm in a puddle of iodine and gasoline heated by stoked flames. I am the first zygote patiently waiting for nutrients. I am the sin, not selective. Full in myself. Eating the air whole around me, gulping down large jaw-breaking gasps.

You read about me in the Gnostic bible. You carry careful weights, paperweights, you know the trophies atrophy easily.

I am churning the buttermilk, the forest leaves, I am careful paint drying when you aren't looking, water boiling when I am ready. Am I ready? The red skylark sunrise and the read book, the dyslexic-friendly font, the carrier pigeon at war.

Canisters and open-face pantry. Mildew covering her spices.

I am bleeding out of my fingertips, I am sore, future-proofing arthritis. Careful arthritic.

I can only tell you I love you so many times, there are still parts of yr face I haven't kissed. I still haven't memorized every Emily Dickinson poem. How much longer am I allowed to be young? To be the newborn fawn? When are the meadows going to snow over for good?

We will take this for granted until the grants stop coming in, no wish granted on top of the fawn's nursery, no bursary for the dying sick child. I grieve for the open-casket and flowermakers. We will find change only when it is our last resort. We will carriage-ride at dawn together. We are young mercenaries for pacifistic peace.

I will turn my cheek, I will learn to kiss you the way Judas kissed Christ.

My enemies will find a tenderfoot love within my atrium, and I will breathe out the white perfect smoke and breathe in the godawful black forest smog with each waking breath.

I am alive, I am intentional. Deliberate. I feel the centres of my palms, now.