Steam

Sometimes my skin

feels like it's made of wind

Nothing but breeze and breathes

It never stays together, no

It swirls and flows, rising up

until it's gotten out into the morning sun

Sometimes it spreads too far

letting my heart spill

right onto the bathroom counter

It's made of whispers and memories

intertwining to make currents and shields

But a neatly placed hand will gentle the zephyr

letting steam leak and mist up the room

I've met those made of rock and stone or glass

It takes a hammer, axe, or stone to get passed

Some marvel at the illusive air

while others know it's simple, and rather fair

But without a hammer, axe, or stone

my steam can never easily flow

Sometimes, I find myself wishing that

my skin was made of trunk instead

But until the day comes where

roots will come to grow and bend

I'll be patient for the hand

to rest itself on my skin once again

-July 7th, 2026