Our heads were meant to be upside down
but instead, we published our brains to the moon.
I rejected the softness
of blonde moss sprouting from my scalp,
let it land like drizzle
upon my warped toes.
I was the clock as your shell developed
inside our reddish walls, the way they stirred us
into each other. Into ourselves.
My fingers like beheaded worms
newly learning to squirm on their own,
trying to stay alive
when they cannot yet live –
We scolded my morphing body
for I was not ready to be upside down.
We are no longer in the womb
I am reminded daily.
My head is now buried in blue moss
like a weighted saddle on my spine,
as I emboss my teeth into my knees
spitting myself into puddles, enough blood to breed mosquitoes.
Your shell sighs as you hobble beside me
under the moon who’s still editing our brains.
The moon who critiques our fetal language,
the slouching of our sentences,
the wasting of our words.
We have permission to squirm slowly now
and remain blissfully unpublished.
Hazel is a sophomore in creative writing at Ruth Asawa School of the Arts in San Francisco. They have work published in Synchronized Chaos, The Weight Journal, and Tiny Day, the smallest ever newspaper, and have performed their poetry at the Youth Art Summit in San Francisco. When Hazel is not writing, they can be spotted cuddling their three cats, holding their python, feeding their tarantula, or rescuing insects from being squashed.
Visual Art By Victoria Han Nguyen