Exhale,
and spit it all out.
Take the time of the month,
and bleed it all out.
My body is an earth of liquid
with its oceans rising,
the cool detachment apathy
is melting,
the blade is pressed to
confident coasts,
comfortable continents;
children are dying
(summary of history),
dying,
so what if they’re mine,
what if they’re not mine,
bleed it all out,
your empathetic rage,
spit it all out,
your voiceless tirade,
I dream of a world
where every seed
gets to grow into a tree,
every seed in the beaches
in the islands
in a city,
but the waters of my body
aren’t vast enough
to heal all poison grounds
and calm all choking weeds
or push back
the crushing avalanche
of odds against us;
children are dying
under the rest of our stunted survival,
every seed
could grow higher than the sea
in my dreams
but this isn’t the truth,
just a loose ruse;
in an exhale,
I wish I could
let the floodwaters go.
Jordyn Saelor 