as bones hunger

their groans spill into my lungs until they become my own

image sourced via pinterest

Hope is hunger that settles in my bones, inside the medullary cavity where my yellow marrow lives — harboring a thirst for the unknown, a longing that fills my belly with grief. I feel it kicking inside me, like a mother in her third trimester.

My bones are hungry; their groans spill into my lungs until they become my own. I ignore the desires of my heart because it’s always burning, always longing— I don’t trust that wretched, broken thing.

Hope mistakes ashes for snow, craving cold where fire once burned; the furnace in my throat holds only coals — silent, smoldering, spent.

Worthless treasure buried beneath bones that sing inside wooden boxes, where whispers dance in dark soil then rise six feet to the surface.

As bones hunger, little children hide inside the skin of adolescence to keep the wolves away. To keep the teeth from tasting their innocence. To preserve their freedom.

k.a.

When you open your hand, you satisfy the hunger and thirst of every living thing.

‭‭Psalms‬ ‭145‬:‭16‬, ‭NLT‬‬

Authors Note:

I have no idea what this poem’s about. I threw a bunch of random thoughts together and ended up with a chaotic collection from mind de kiana. I like poetry. It never pressures me with rules because there are none. I can say what I want, how I want, and if I don’t want to capitalize the first word in a sentence, I don’t. I can overuse punctuation, or leave it out completely. Poetry is a breath of fresh air, and I really need that right now. If there were a more exciting process behind writing this piece, I’d share it with you—but all I did was lie in bed, typing it out on my phone. Sometimes, there’s nothing glamorous about creating art. It’s raw and often the most ordinary thing in the world. That’s the beauty of it: you never really know what it’ll become until it’s done.

kiana

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