⸙

I've always kept stones in my room as long as I've been allowed to say what's in it. Smoothed round river stones, gemstones in all hues and shapes, geos with powdery shells and glistening innards like jam pastries. Whenever one was big enough, heavy enough, I'd lay it on my chest. They were comforting and helped me sleep. Chips of the Earth older than I pressing down on my sternum. I still do it now when I can't sleep. Weighted blankets don't work, and the cool press of stone against skin helps the heat that seems to seep into my room. It makes me think of the day I'll be buried. 

I've never wanted a coffin, I want the worms to have a feast, the mushrooms to grow from my skin so I might understand their divinity. I want the roots to gently peel past my skin and muscle, to wrap around my bones and give me a home made of their sinewy tissues as the root hairs sooth my ever aching nerves by drilling and replacing them. I want the rocks to press down on me freely from above like they had when I was little, to help me sleep for the last and first time all over again.

I heard somewhere once that when you sleep long but don't feel restless it's because your soul is out walking while it can, maybe they helped keep it trapped. Maybe that's why I hurt so much, my soul never got a chance to escape.