Paper cuts

(small deaths)

I have been dying in increments—

todo lists and work deadlines,

the comfortable numbness of knowing exactly what each day will bring.

These are the small deaths:

the voice that learned to say

"be practical" and "grow up"

and "that's not how the world works."

But somewhere in New Mexico,

under alien skies and gift shop neon,

I cracked open like a ripe melon,

spilling light across empty parking lots.

I was twenty-two once,

earnest and electric,

sending birthday money to believers,

waiting for magic to find me.

Where did I bury that hunger?

Under decades of steady paychecks,

the sediment of settling for a life that fits in boxes.

Here,

people defend wonder against a world that rolls its eyes,

choosing mystery over mockery, questions over certainty.

A young gas station attendant asks why I stopped believing—

and I realize:

I never stopped.

I just forgot where I put it.

The heart is an archaeological site.

Sometimes you need desert air

and murals painted with hope to remember what you've buried.

I leave this strange town carrying something I thought I'd lost—

the part of me that stays up late watching for visitors in the dark.

The part that still believes

the sky might crack open

and spill tomorrow's magic onto tonight's pavement.