Laying back in the tall grass
in the place I was born.
The shape my body makes
is a heavy sadness.
I sigh as if it made
the weight leave my body.

The sky is always bluer in the mountains,
that’s something to be learned with age.
To be ten years old and to hear that
childhood is archetypically
the best years of your life.
To be ten years old and to not realize
the freedom there is in that.

As if clouds could hear thoughts,
they cover the sky from time to time
just so I forget about my narcissistic thinking.

I close my eyes.
The grass feels like a sea of threads.
I’m in a constant state of waiting
for the needles to ***** me.
I am certain they will arrive,
but I do not move.
Laying on the ground
will never keep me grounded.

Laying back in the tall grass
I feel smaller.
I have failed, I have thrived.
The answers to my questions hover over this field
but the wind is too quick to pull them away
and I know where they are.
But the hard ground
is starting to feel comfortable now.