by Aleah Dye
We were cradled above the earth, rocked gently to sleep. We could have called it a rebirth, but we weren’t so vain as to believe we were that important. It was what it was: a nap in a hammock. The purest sleep, the kind of sleep where dreams don’t creep in because life, in that moment, is a dream. The air was biting, but we were okay with being eaten alive if it meant we could be held.
Aleah Dye (she/her) primarily writes poetry, tending towards topics of morbidity, love, social justice, and philosophy. She is dread fully afraid of imperfection and spiders, in no particular order. She has a one-eyed cat named Ivy and a one-track-minded (food!) cat named Rosebud. Aleah hopes to make hearts grow three sizes with her words.
Emerge Literary Journal 