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  • Marichit Garcia

This is where I buried my heart


​This is where I buried my heart,

no, I mean

this is where I planted my heart,

like a seed, like a treasure,

here in the middle of a dense dream forest,

wild and wanting and fierce,

dangerous and deadly.


There are many maps but

none of them are as true as

the one that has been written between 

the lines of a crossroads contract,

although the bargain of souls always

has loose ends and loopholes 

if one knows where to look,

which is not with the eyes but

with memories, regrets, and blind hope.


My armour is the earth, soaked with rain,

and other fallen things, there was

an angel once who crushed my heart

unknowingly beneath his feet as he

tried to balance himself unwinged,

cursing, plotting cold revenge.


I have made a marker of fairy rings,

so I would not forget where I was supposed to be, 

and have found my sleep disturbed by

the lost and the curious, and by 

beautiful dreaming kings

disappointed to find I was merely a dead end,

a false start, and that there was no queen

worth kissing to save at all.


Lately there have been murmurings

among the trees, of borders breached,

of strange blooms arising from the depths 

of earth and water, sand and rock,

of messengers with impossible forms.

The dream forest is hushed as it waits.

Something stirs.

Something wakes. 

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