i have become soft under my own fingers,
a clay in which i mold myself a vase — place there flowers
to enjoy, cut at the root to bloom for an hour
cyclical sister, why do you wither?
we both know what awaits us when the night ends
perhaps we should learn to love our pain!
performing my sigil i exist for only a moment
my petals drop like sand through the performative glass
my reflection becomes more soothing in the dark
we use each other’s names like soap — scouring,
scrubbing our skin to wash away our old bones
glowing pink and raw we can finally try again
god watches while I am resurrected in my own hands
Lacie is a senior at UNT and when she’s not writing, she’s drinking an iced coffee somewhere forgetting what it is she wanted to write about.