I want to write something ugly
Tell you about how my backpack has more scars than me and I don't overpack anymore
Let you know about all the little Gods I've met in the magic-flooded mundane…
The ragged dying dog in the homeless camp who lapped gravy off my frozen fingers till they stung
How I held her bony body in my jacket and begged tomorrow to be kind
The hundred-year-old home I had and that one time it rained so hard it blew the stairwell ceiling straight in and we called it a skylight
I saw a sticky sunrise from my hall the next day and thought, this is how all storms should end—with your boots caked in plaster and a little bit of light.