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I’m laying here in the in-between of suns

beginning to spin thoughts in the moon sunk hours

unraveling, my loose threads tangle in tiny knots

grasping hands in the dark, which hold me

beneath an ink-thick veil of neither silence nor sound

hearing only the echoes of the insides of my selves

in cacophonic whispers that are never able to agree

clamoring for space, they elbow against the edges of my skull

clawing through grey matter, tearing synapses in their tasmanian wake

before emerging orifical in a blood-throbbing burst

blinding white-hot light-spots refract into spectral color

prismatic against the onyx aura of the room, a collective exhale exhumes

their kaleidoscopic wisps collect into reflections of faces I’ve sometimes

seen in the glass gazes of mirrors or glances caught in an

especially bright window in spring as I blow

past on wind-lifted footsteps weightless in the bud-studded

breeze on my wanderer days that glide on black-veined wings

glowing translucent against the sorbet rays of the sky gone

twilight holding steady as I set softly into the horizon suspended between atmospheres,

my heliconius limbs stretch span the star-washed night in infinite constellations

folding in the aurora of dawns break drifting earth-bound in

narcoleptic surrender I lay on the forest floor nestled

in moss beds among the cradling roots of tender elder oaks

that gently wake me, wingless, and map my way home

flesh-burdened body gravity-bound heavy stepping in its humanity

hitting cement the same color as the concrete clouds begging release

coming in soaking sobs poured in mourning of a

selfish suns goodbye, the scorn of a shrouded moon, the snuff of unseen stars

leaving lonely puddles on the pock-marked skin of oil-slick streets

filling the craters and lining garbage-strewn gutters

here, I’ve sometimes seen the same specters stare in distorted glares

a thin film of wavering iridescence caught in the clutch

of tar-stained fingertips that know no limit in their ravenous reach

the ones I see seep through the burnt edges of my eyelids

stuck open in their grip each time I ache

too weary to rest, when I say I was sleeping

when I say I slept.


Lexi Burt (she/her) was born in Salt Lake City, Utah, but spent most of her twenties in Northern California and left her heart among the redwoods, moss, and ferns. She is currently a student at the University of Utah who writes with the intention to cultivate empathy and awareness. Her first pieces were recently published in Prose Nouveau, and her work centers around the relationship between body and earth, mental health, motherhood, and sexuality. She's happiest surrounded by trees, and you'll often find her face to the sky, feet buried in the ground, and stealing a moment to lie in the sun. She likes to take her daughter and two dogs camping, hiking and wandering in her downtime, never without a yoga mat in tow.


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