On the coast, the fog crashes through like kaiju, disappearing trees and buildings with a single blow. Their dense and guttural cries inspire my joints to take their place in the chorus, creaking and groaning, too. My body, my city, are monster movies before the destruction, during the destruction, after the destruction. We call the after the rebuilding, and the before the good ol days. My body, my city, is the monster, is the rebuild, is the goodest of the oldest days.
The words I spelled wrong before the help of technology: coast, disappearing, guttural, chorus, creaking.
This is to say, the last few days have been the part of healing dance where you take two steps back. I’m proud of myself because I’ve managed it better than usual, despite insurrection and disease and winter, and everything that else that battles down my bones just by existing in the world.
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