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Some days, my bones crumble at the
slightest afflicting assertions
spilled out like dying crimson stars
in late October.
What are you?
I’m an hourglass,
pouring tragedies from lips that aren’t mine.
I wonder what it’s like to live your
entire existence in hiding,
carrying unnecessary weight
against bruised hips.
I live within four restraining corners,
eyes dragging across outlined edges.
I grew up surrounded by plastic lies,
and spent my days learning to align my steps
with those of ancestors.
Why is it so hard to step outside a box?
Our eyes will never see beyond the skylines.
I’m tired of routine,
I’ve always dreamed of changing the world.
It’s easier for me to number my imperfections.
I’ve counted the numerous times
when my knees were too tired
to drag ribcages from swollen beds,
how my voice was not loud enough
to sing over thorns,
how I never really learned to unchoke myself
from those who strangled me
so instead I was taught to string sentences onto silent canvases,
creating my only weapons.
Some day, I might dare to venture out to the edge
maybe when I’m brave enough
to let my heart fall into the unknown.
There, I will see more clearly
what I couldn’t from the center.