Black-Hole by Zinnia Hansen (17, Washington)*

Prayer pools like drool on my pillow, like fresh rain gone quiet.
Summer’s heat, dusty feet, sweating sunset frog song, 
swallowing my own suppositions until I become pregnant with myself. 

I took a plunge at midnight. I tossed my body into the sea, 
and I watched the black water pour into my drought punctured soul.
I sincerely believe passion keeps us sane. 
Lying dead in a bathtub, wet washcloth over my mouth, 
I wanted to see how long I could endure torture. 
We are beautiful because we are temporary, oppressed and pressed by mortality.
But I was not really dead, just struggling to breathe, to believe.

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