You tried to become
smaller
didn’t you?
You curled into yourself,
twisting and bending your spine,
wanting to fit into a box so small,
it would fit in your hand.
You tried to speak softer,
didn’t you?
There was no more room in your box,
so you spoke smaller words,
and shorter sentences.
Keeping your thoughts in
a bottle nestled between
your ribs.
You tried to follow the lines
on your palm,
like the vikings followed
the constellations―
searching for something―
anything―
other than yourself.
But what they failed to teach you,
between your abc’s and 123’s
is that you are not a box―
you are a warrior,
and your skin
is your armor.
The lines on your palm
are not a maps;
you are not meant to
fit inside a box;
your words are meant to
be heard as you scream
from the rooftops,
breathing in gulps
of fresh air;
and the only thing you’re
meant to find is
yourself.
(DS)
