i. a. r. h. c. ART CRED

HER HAIR, HER SMOKE, HER DREAMS.

hyenachildren:

_{The first time I say I love you, your face
crumbles. You look at me
the way man stares in terror
at the stars and the sea.}

_{You grasp your head, fist
your hair, hiss, whisper why me
why me I am weak I am
dirt I am dust I am
nothing—}

_{Why you? Because
the earth is made of dust
and dirt and you are as
essential to me as earth
is to sky; you give me something
to set my sun against.}

_{The dirt and the dust are not
weak. I could build a house
out of you; you are the roof
when I rain.}