it's not so much
Maya Chorney
it’s not so much that there’s a face in the poplar tree outside my window, or that he keeps me up
some nights with his talking when the moon is missing. it’s not so much that i tore my throat
apart to howl and the wolves came and offered me their own.
it’s not so much that i’ve seen the world end.
it’s not so much that i cracked the sky open when i was a child, either, or that i ran it over the
earth’s curves like an egg when i hadn’t even entered my own mother’s womb yet.
it’s not so much that i’ve shed my skin to try on a new look that didn’t fit and that my own skin
felt strange after coming home to it. it’s not so much that i can’t remember where i left the keys
or that the brakes never work when i’m careening towards a cliff or even that i fall off the cliff
and then when i—whatever it is that makes me an i—hit the mattress it’s like coming home in
the most unexpected and jarring way.
it’s not so much that i’ve seen the world end.
(through a tv screen, a fever dream.)
it’s not so much all this than that the sun dripped down on us while the world ended. it’s not so
much all this than that you were wearing denim overalls and a cropped shirt underneath so when
i placed my hands at the crease of your waist they met skin. and it’s also this, that I could feel the
warmth of your skin blooming under my palms and mostly, it’s that we kissed and when i woke
up the face in the poplar tree was singing.
maya is an undergrad student, queer cryptid with an affinity for glitter, and most likely a witch.