On Boxing Day in Newfoundland.

I start without ceremony or expectation, all wet sticks, newspaper bits, and saw cuts.

I am lethargy and intention, watching broad swaths of sun coat the backs of mountains.

I sit roughly, collapsed against black metal, smoking furtively, beckoning commitment not yet mustered.

Around me, anxious possibilities swirl, whispering sweater pulls, responsibility, and the risks of unraveling.

I feel my bones stir as something resembling possibility shifts my attention.

I issue a hopeless ruse, the size of yesterday’s news and collapse into layers.

I billow deeper than before, drawing on fumes to brace against anxiety.

An exhale on my shoulder brushes against where my edges rest.

I shudder against the crest of a conscious wind and let a rattle crinkle my lips.

I draw a breath, sharply, gasping at strips curling up my arms.

I tremble just enough to let my skin crack, fissures fizzing like cola cans.

And press urgently against the blistered walls that hold me in.

I flare towards shielded eyes and accept the consequences.

I give myself away and groan from my grinning cave of embers.

I wretch, resist, release.

And burn.

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