I cannot parse calm, nor the implications of it; to be calm is to surrender, and baby, I just don’t know if I can do that yet, I don’t know if I can give up the burden or embrace the exhale or scatter the particles of starlight in my lungs across the air for everyone to witness and absorb. That’s what I am, y’know—something to be witnessed—I’m not going to put my hands up and I’m not going to get down on the ground unless it’s for prostration. I’m not guilty, I just cannot be seen in my entirety, a stone maddening encasing anyone who burrows in too deep. I’m not guilty, I’ve planted my feet in the ground, I’m not going anywhere, I won’t leave you, I’m not guilty, I’ve buried myself a grave here and in the spring, fruit will sprout right out of me, consumed for the luxury. Calm is each little droplet of rain on my window and the granulated sugar in the cookies we just put in the oven and the glisten of the molten sun when it rises to burn in the petrichor. To be calm is to slow down, and baby, I know every nightfall lures you outside, your eyes to the stars, watching each planet spin from a vast distance, mourning the calm me that could’ve existed, under different circumstances, under different stars.