five summers past

a deep oceanic transmission courtesy of (sidereal) cancer season

cancer season sends me orbiting retroactively into every version of self i’ve ever been. cancer season got me fucked up in a lot of ways, but also stays bringing me back into my deep dark knowing. the kind of ancient wisdom that follows you everywhere. wherever you go in this life, there you are. cancer season means the sun is moving through my eighth house, unearthing the uncomfy and bringing me face to face with a thousand eyed spider, cosmic mother, all seeing and all knowing genderfucked sky daddy. i saw a story prompt yesterday, an invitation into digital altar making, to invoke the last five summers. in every photo i chose i am smiling. in nearly every photo i chose i am with the water. you can’t take a pisces moon out of the existential goo. i’m never more myself than when i’m submerged in the pacific, or the atlantic, or any body of water that will hold me and every ancestor who resides in my body at any given time. i rub up against conditioning that tells me to retreat, run away, pull back all my energy, become crab-like, protect my fragile three of swords heart against all odds. i resist the urge to run from love. i rebuke self-sabotage that draws me away from connection, away from intimacy. janelle sings ‘i’m looking at a thousand versions of myself. and they all. fine. as fuck.’ do i win in every lifetime? do i choose love in every timeline? i select the highlights from the last five summers — visceral and oceanic memories flood my soma. a breakup here, a cross country move there, another break up, a pregnancy release, a thousand kisses on the cheek from butterflies and benevolent winds. bottles of dish soap thrown to recycling, watch me measure half a decade in meals shared with loved ones. in tears wiped away. in manic hair dyeing and DIY buzzcuts, in jazz nights that feel like forever, in sunsets and sunrises and laughing from dusk till dawn till dusk again. cancer season makes me an even more disgusting and sappy poet than i already am. my astrologer tells me cancers are the true poets of the zodiac, and no shade i agree. my virgo ass can write into eternity but it’s cancer that gives me the unending sea where true poetry is found. i’m looking at a thousand versions of myself across five overripe and indulgent summers, and i fall to my knees in reverence for what i see.