We exist in fragments,
and we exist for the small miracles,
frost on the windowpane,
swirling lights in the fog,
the thrum of nature under our palms.
Can't you hear the heartbeat?
Buried deep, I wish for flowers to crawl up
straight from your tortured ribcage,
I wish for roses from your heart.
I wish for the earth to take you tenderly,
and for you to want something better than
the questionable nature of cut-throat genetics,
punching in codes of destruction,
splitting, and splitting,
until they split you out of existence.
You have defied them,
those broken repeated cells do not define you.
You may sleep,
but you still exist in small miracles,
and in fragments.