Becoming.

Teeth graze the edge of exhale,

we gnaw

on marrow of longing,

tongues flutter like leaves in restless wind.

Skin splits under the surface,

raw with ache

of becoming,

Blood is a silent river

coursing the cracks of want.

We’re less flesh, more soil -

Unkempt in craving,

roots knotted in drought.

Our hearts pulse like sap, thick and slow,

each beat a nudge

that we are both thorn and petal,

softness cloaked in sharpness,

beauty biting the bitter.

We spill into the night,

a dark bloom spreading,

veins lit by the quiet burn

of what we cannot grasp.

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Becoming. The way deep longing transforms you from the inside, slowly and without permission. How you can want something so completely and still never quite hold it.