heaven-spent
to all but the unheard, who recognize / this sort of shouting from the howl
by nat raum
my inner child cries a lot—
they emerge from slumber too
often and wrap their body in heavy
saline rain spilling forth from eyes,
bottomless. when they’re small,
they cry themself larger, a tantrum
to all but the unheard, who recognize
this sort of shouting from the howl
of their own throats. but when they
grow, they sob themself smaller,
feeling too far gone, too fucked,
too absolutely withered inside
for anything gentle to touch them.
they don’t want anyone to make them
smaller anymore, but they want
to be smaller sometimes. they want it
to be easier. they want to understand
how they are supposed to hold it
together, how one person is meant
to do all this (they gesture broadly;
i blink. i can’t answer.)
nat raum (b. 1996) is a disabled artist, writer, and genderless disaster from Baltimore, MD. They’re the editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press, as well as the author of you stupid slut, the abyss is staring back, random access memory, and several chapbooks. Find them online: natraum.com/links.
