I once spent a whole damn year trying to feel the earth spin beneath my feet. I glued my heels to gravity, sewed my palms to the moon, and prayed to God to shake the stillness (because it clung like dead water in my gut). I opened my mouth to the rain- exclaimed- intoxicate my blood, but I still felt clean, uncalloused, brand new.
I once unstitched my soles, peeled my fingers from their prints, and there was blood- purple dollops of flesh that spun like gauzy webs or nursery mobiles (they lit the sky in requiem of my innocence). I felt bruisy-lipped and free. Painting space with my skin, trembling inside the vacancy (the newborn void) of my own soul. This is what it means to orbit. To feel my innards churn with Sunday sickness, nauseous love, to be sure of nothing at all but my own exposure. I am a threadless home of isolated bones, mortal in this existence, infinite in my own.