heaven-spent

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.