Origin Myths BY MEGAN ROSS I should have guessed I would always take to mourning like religion. I swallowed the loss of my mother's father inside her womb, death sampling my blood / lumped with absence. My futures bloomed in some prior-ticking heart & I forget this (when it's my turn to swallow the world) I think it should show in some mark, believing myself hemisphered & tectonic, wanting the bliss of tides, not his emerald eyes, craving love but not the sapphire of morning song while in a ruby-winged autumn, under my skin, a butterfly changes shape. Why do I contemplate my life as if all my mothers never sewed dreams into my eyes, as if all my time isn't a blade bleeding someone else's thigh? / I've spent too much time in parking lots I think tasting tar all I shouldn't my nails are never clean who I would have been if I had Instagram at 13? I miss videos & presticking posters to my wall surf wax sticking to my garden path wishing my breasts were bigger.
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