Of all these sadnesses, the thread runs
            in yellow. Conglomerate
sun, super
           natural
                      looking away. Sentient motherfucker,
           your tragedy became a doctor
                      whose scalpel undid me.
                                            Under my skin in the light I
saw facts, laid stone path for some
reason, always its
           opposite, like what do we do with
how fucking beautiful
                      it becomes
before & after the actual

                      And I so hated
           those wakeful & those who walked like waking
life was so pretty,
                                 like getting home was done.
I was episodic yes but windy and
slow and dirt ran through me.
My grave
then carved out
of me
 
I never wanted to die
why would anyone want to die? when I only believe
in places
           I wanted to live
           I poorly whispered
to blood & to the things that could not be tender, now
 
yellow is fierce
& I could afford the trickle of it
           by way of
the stitch