“a man shaving.”
last night i dreamt
of a man,
two scars on his chest,
flicking across his face
a razor, raising follicles,
beard, brown, fluttering down
like weeping angels’ wings
falling from heaven to
imperfect earth.
he mightve been me.
why isnt he me?
“dysforest”
when lungs collapse and collarbones snap
and debris is all that’s left of me
when swords sheath themselves
in my gut and my brain
becomes an entree for decay
i want my broken bones to be
the forest floor
for a new kind of spring, one
good enough.
roots will draw water
from my tear ducts, now run dry
with disuse and distrust
because crying is weakness, it’s
lopsided tear streaks, like off-color
mushrooms
poking their ways
through old bone and fat that once
had a name.
for them,
im enough.
as the first flowers crawl their way
up my throat, blooming from despondency
nature will laugh at these estranged children
borne of a body that was never good,
never enough,
until now.
Hugh Stoll is a senior at Appomattox Regional Governor’s School who enjoys a nice cup of tea with their existential dread in the mornings.
The Mire 