It's like I said, if you'd just read closer.

There is no atmosphere where I am,
there is only vacuum.
There is only spinning, endlessly. There are circles
under my eyes,
in the skies,
the stars.

They are dizzying, but I hang
on because there is no other place for me but here,
no place but the airless gardens and yards around me.

They do not grow.

I do not grow—my bones compress.
My spine shortens,
I am unlike the person I knew.
I am unlike the people I knew.
I am unlike, unlikeable.

Vomiting into my hands, into my belly,
the hands of my mother.

And she catches it again, again, again.

7/7/2020