These rocks are as light as my pills. They fill the ground with substance and the rain can’t fall through it because the rain gets trapped in the ridges. I hope I can come back from this. Staring at the ground wondering how it can feel so cold, and still grow things that look gentle. Like the sound of my mother’s voice and she asks me if I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m scribbles on pages that were made from a tree that once stood tall above the rocks. It towered over the thicket and screamed at every storm until it got paralyzed by this world. Brought it down from its throne of ruling the forest and feeding the clouds. Us. The people who beat down living things because we were taught to beat in order to survive and I’m beating my mind up over this. I’m surviving from air that’s thinner than my breath and if I smoke one more cigarette I’m sure I’ll disintegrate. Take medicine to feel better. Grow better. Be better. Sleep better. I am the rock that everyone places their palms on, because somehow they think they’ll be healed. I’m running out of oxygen so I lay amongst the gravel, where trees used to live. Nurse my wounds like I never have before and finally look for the damage. Dig these young palms into the earth and think to myself, “These rocks are as light as my pills.” -AMT