Bodies are fragile. A universe wrapped inside molecules inside particles of magic, science, and a divine always choked by a political doctrine: you have always wanted new bodies; yours never had enough beauty, enough resilience, enough white. So now, you will wish for bleached perfection: bodies that never broke and needed to heal, bodies that never fought sadness, bodies that were never sold, bodies that were never violated, bodies that never protest. But, you forget bodies were birthed from lush suffering: never a thriving plant in a planned garden. Both creations, an alloy of blood and dirt were a genetic mutation — a violent DNA burgeon that took more than six days; you were never mirrored in a single image before a day of rest. Yet, you put knee on neck into a vein of breath, with your revelry, your desire to be god with your full body weight: with you wearing black gloves to protect from a shadow that stains hands and dirt that clings under fingers’ nails. The vein of your breath more valued, your silence more heard as he pleaded for his “mama” as he saw past spines shattered into fields. As you closed his gasp with your sauntered lean on that stem in a garden of flawed roses: you were the thorn with your roots deep in soil rarely raked, rarely cultivated for fear of you being shit.