White Knuckled

I rip grass from the earth
as if something within me will finally loosen with it
The blades snap wet against my calloused palms
cold, fragile things breaking because I need something to break

The meadow is dying beneath me
color drained, soil thinning
like it has been waiting for someone like me
to finish what the world has already started

The world does not hold the same consideration for me
it presses instead
a weight I can feel in my ribs
in the breath that catches before it ever reaches my lungs

The wind moves through me
as though I am not even here.
Its chill settles into my bones
and refuses to leave.

My hands tremble,

Fingernails biting in the flesh of my palms
white-knuckled, raw,

like they are clinging to the last strand
of something I can’t name