Memories like candles.
They burn,
cry hot wax tears,
then leave a monument.
All while shining a light,
on what you choose
and how you choose,
to see.
I can count many tales
on my hand,
and many wounds
on my arms.
I lay every night
on a pillow
of flame and tears.
I drown inside my head and
break into pieces of kintsugi
inside my heart.
I try to explain,
but no one listens.
Born mute,
learned to speak.
Born different,
learned to fit in.
Born to be me,
and I learned to be you.
I can explain,
But who’s listening?
Wrongly labeled
and wrongly judged.
Back of a hand on lips.
A sword cuts through my lungs.
Thoughts hanged.
Innocence raped.
Natural gifts shot.
And all buried.
No ceremony,
and no farewell.
No time to grieve,
and no time to adapt.
I’m ok.
Here’s a mask,
put it on.
I am told.
You are sin.
Yes I am sin.
Hide your soul.
I can count many tales
on my hand.
I rest my head,
on pillow of fire.
And I drown
in the waters of my thoughts.
I love,
and I hurt.
Forgive me.
Footprints erased.
Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.
