I watch you as you drown
my hands are tied behind me – not by society, but by society’s inability to teach me how to build a raft.
All that my eyes can do is build a bridge by looking into yours
but it’s not concrete, it’s not enough.
I’m taught to say “fuck society,”
I’m taught to fill my blood with radical thoughts and pump them through my body so that
I am a machine coursing with power.
But in this war I have shed more blood than my feeble heart can pump.
And look at me now.
Talking about myself again
making this all about me
while they call you weak.
Little do they know that you are built with an armour made from your own tears.
They don’t know how you can never seek escapism because the one thing that keeps you from jumping into Wonderland is the grappling, spiky hook of reality that has held hostage the ones you love.
How can they call you weak, immoral, pitiful,
when they can’t see that you are a sponge,
and you absorb abuse so easily – too easily,
until you will one day be squeezed dry
and all that will be left of you will be the semblance of a mind,
the shadow of a soul that ran away from its own outline of a body.
And we can’t whisper a word about it.
i’m screaming through this ink, but I can’t be heard because half my brain has been jailed.
For the past few years I have been taught how to pick locks, but when it comes to doing it,
I just end up tightening them.
So I don’t tell you.
I use shitty, cheesy metaphors because no matter how much I want to be beyonce,
I am a coward.
So I tell you that molehills have been made into mountains,
that Pandora’s box has been opened,
that her shoulders droop down from bending over backwards because she carries the weight of the world on them.
I am taught in class after class that my vagina does not have to be kept in a safe until the man who owns the key allows it to be used.
I am taught that my voice is heard and echoes and is pocketed by people,
but how does any of this matter outside of that fragile bubble?
I was still floating in it until the thorny bushes of real life popped it,
and now I am free-falling, yelling for help,
but my screams have been masked by the ambiguity of poetry,
and standbys think i’m skydiving.
What do I do?
I carry a heavy bag of liberal ideas that form a parachute,
but the heavy rains and roaring thunder flood the land on which I was supposed to hold my ground,
pushing the strong concrete miles beneath where my feet are.
So I do what I do best.
I use my parachute to fly upward again,
to a dry, happy land far, far away.
A place so far away that my eyes no longer burn having to watch you drown,
that my ears no longer ring with your cries and plea for help,
but a place that is just right for me and my backpack.
So we both can be