There are wrinkles at the edge of me.
Fractals that expand in concentric rings…
fluid dynamics between tectonic plates, cartilage and cavity.
I am an amniotic explosion of hydrogen, helium, and lithium.
A rickle of bones and stones.
When I rotate my body, peculiar shapes are cast, debossed, marked —
my face is embroidery, adorned with crevasses.
I am made of calcium carbonate, saltwater and empty space.
There are more atoms in my body than you’ll ever be able to count.
They dance, the hydrogens and oxygens —
It is how they make life.
Sometimes, my insides become my outsides.
I am fire born and made of leaky constellations.
Great rivers of heat and liquid erupt from pores the size of civilisations.
Birds call me their landing place, and for that I am thankful.
They say, ‘no man is an island’, to which I reply, ‘I am an archipelago’.
I am terra, I am aqua.
My hairs, forests, billowing in the blistering wind.
I have seen time do things to my body no words can describe.
I am motive, revolutionary, fluctuating.
When tears fall, blossom follows, my body sprouting, sponging, tiding me on.
Beneath the fuzz, fat, and regolith is a mycelium of lithic sinew —
clutching a molten core, gases and guts buried beneath porous, metallic layers…
mineral, fascia, element.
I am still turning, still being born.