They call me Thunder Thighs. Sometimes i forget how big my thighs really are. my thighs could kill a man. they could snatch  the lightning like a cigarette from between zeus’ fingers. they high five. they’re always high fiving. they’re always stoked about something. they meet each other like a prayer. they’re always praying for something even when i’m not. this is why my strides are so long even when i have no destination.  i’ve got rosary beads where bikes would have chains. they’re dusty, they’re always rattling like ghost of christian past. i’m not afraid of naming it “past” anymore, but i still like the way its scars ooze hymnals. i hear it when middle eastern air filters through the anise pods in my body.

it’s muffled, but when i walk i know my great grandmother’s prayers travel like sap through my tendons. the bullet that went through her head is nestled between two lives i don’t remember. they’re each an arm that cradles it like her son’s arms cradled her. my thighs probably have rings on the inside: who i was before i even Was

is trapped in my center of gravity.

my thighs are probably older than i am. they probably belonged to my great grandmother. i bet every body part i have belonged to a dead relative. the way they curve or jut closer to the space around my body is to reach closer to the family i can still hug.

the people i still somewhat resemble. the biology that civil war failed to claim

so the cosmic will hanging in the soundwaves left us with moles and hairs to inherit. they connect kind of like constellations but more like something less precious, something with the capacity to kill with the roots it stores in the nucleus of you: that planet that centers all the rings. it hangs like a doorknocker behind your bellybutton. When you’re born, the portal between you and mother is broken but so much has traveled between you before your body sealed itself. This is why it hurts to stick your finger in your middle, to knock at your navel – something ancient is carving you from the inside out, you’re not supposed to know it’s there.

You’re not supposed to know why there’s a cellar in your stomach because that’s where the lizards live – these dehydrated past versions of all the Selves you’ve ever been. They wait to expand when they sense other halves of themselves behind other bellybuttons you orbit. This is why when I meet certain people, I feel a tug at my navel, I feel my breath want to collapse into the cellar of myself. I can’t breathe, I see stars turning into fleas, chewing my vision purple. This is why I like purple so much. Why I collect it under my eyes. This is why I trust my stride even when I can’t see where I’m going.

When I can’t breathe, I keep walking. They call me Thunder Thighs.