My words are becoming lacy with cobweb kisses. I’ve forgotten the meaning of time. Hours run into minutes, but days can creep on like centuries. I would call, but my voice is a dried bouquet of flowers others call weeds. Is this romance or me losing myself inside of your empty spaces? I want to stop being an ancient monument and quit crumbling. I’m beginning to see the torture of time in places you begged me to not steal from. I try not to go to those places because pick-pockets lurk and danger haunts, but the allure of the unknown hangs within my reach. Words are never enough to express the thousand-million things I want to say, but I try anyway. Fiction was always easier than the raw poetics of life. I breathe easier with a foreign coin in my pocket. Maybe that’s the wanderlust in my soul. I am learning to find myself in the rubble of an ancient city. I think of Pompeii and the skeletons who held so many memories. When our souls evacuate, those memories are nothing more than the volcanic dust that circle our bodies like chalk outlines. All we have is right now. Here. In front of us.
“The letters they wrote her: desperate, hoping, wanting love like some want breath. I just wanted freedom.”
It is nothing of me to wish upon stars. I’ve been doing it for years. I remember lying in bed, wondering when I would taste freedom. When I ran, I always imagined an escape. A jailbreak. Now, I’m starting to break free of my chains, and it’s opening a new world of possibilities, but I could never run alone. I remember pleading with people to run away with me. I knew the train timetables by heart. I had a go-bag packed. Let’s run.
We are built on our ancestor’s graves, and all I can think of is all the people who went to the balcony Juliet stood from. The letters they wrote her: desperate, hoping, wanting love like some want breath. I just wanted freedom.
I sold my soul for a dictionary, and now, all I have left to atone for is my sins. You would never look at me and know my wildest stories. You would imagine me hiding in a library corner, watching the antics, but if I opened up, you would be surprised to see not simply a phoenix, not a butterfly, but a mountain lion.
My roar might be rusty, my words might be weak, but given enough time, the fire returns to my eyes, the flush comes back to my cheeks, and I am strong. I am stronger than I give myself credit for. I am rising again. It’s an ebb and flow. I don’t know what the tides will hold, but I surrender myself to its waves. I am an ocean inside of a human being.
I always want to be seen. That must be the lion in me. I want to have my story heard. I want a megaphone, but I shrink when I notice the audience. I wilt in the stage-lights. I wasn’t always like this. I was born to perform, but the world made me invisible. I’m fighting back. I’m rebelling simply by being brave enough to speak my name. I hope this feeling is one that blossoms further and further.
But I have my trepidation.
I have felt this bliss before. I have experienced this euphoria. I wait for the shoe to fall, the mountain to collapse, the ocean’s tide to dissipate, and the roar to dim to a mumble.
But I hope, this time, it’s different.