All the people I love are the ghosts that hunt at night.

The drive to my people’s home, the silence of nights

Quiets down as the horror fades away. On the roads

You do not meet the drunk, nor do you mistake the

Roads paranormal bending into light—a symbol of

Purity. It’s a thousand hours of walk, your body is

Forced into a gun powder (and your insecurities

Creak into the back of your ear like broken omen:

Clay plates falling on Christmas Eve)—smoke

Becomes fire, your body is an explosion of wrath

On all the wrong planets, your mothers body is

The first place to hold unto the warmth on the atlas.