I’ve become a love letter for the person I used to be;
living in powdered walls, and loving a breeze
flowing into the room I’ve built.
I’ve sculpted an artist from discarded parts,
and painted a mural over family photos,
revolting against a system that shuns a creative mind.
I’ve escaped the lion’s den, and lived to tell a tale
to a little girl who’s only hope was an escape plan.
She was always a little out of her head,
floating between the tangled vines
that wove themselves around her hips,
opening up for the light of a single ray.
Her buds bloomed early in spring,
and her eyes sang melodies so loud,
there was never a reason to break the silence
that followed behind a stunned gardener.
She knew not only how to dance
in the sounds of her madness,
but how to play with the lust of nature
to win the eyes of whomever would listen.
I used to duck around buildings
and hide behind dumpsters
to avoid the beatings
I’ve learned not to run,
but to welcome the opportunity,
and smile despite the bullet holes
because I know it does nothing
but fuel my motivation
I would sooner go deaf
than never again listen
to the river flowing from your lips,
that it appears almost still.
I plant a dozen roses
at the foot of weathered granite,
and do not weep for a loss
that believed absence
means more room for life.
The boys I’ve dated
made me believe I loved too hard
to be held onto.
Little did I know
all I had to do
was look for a man instead.
This monster of mine
will not get me alone
if i choose not to follow
while i still have the power to do so.
I will not allow it to turn my
ink stains into blood spills
or my potted plants into wildflowers.
I have known the fear
of movies played on blank screens
and refuse to see
everything that was never
meant to be there.