weather balloon

The child who keeps my soul in her hands
casts her skin to the sky like a hatchling,
like a great balloon,
to protect it from the awful things I do sometimes.

She coughs blood and fire;
when I try to rest against her my head
lands in blackened lungs.

I wish she would burn away my excess
but instead she casts it all
to the sea; it sinks to the dark corners
rifling through the nutrients, touching
all the water it can't see.

I wish I loved her.
I wish she hated me.