Photo by Alan Cabello c/o pexels
i won't say life has always been hell
but i've never felt heaven either.
trenching through mud,
sinking with each step,
dusty olive green,
just to keep ourselves warm.
renaming parts of our bodies
‘til they seem to fit.
‘til we made eden.
fear is a noose that wasn't made to fit our necks,
so it bound our wrists instead.
but you still look for hornbills in trees
that aren't there anymore.
and i still mistake stray lights for the moon.
surely, the sky ought to mean more than this.
freedom is a wire frame greenhouse
that seems to be hanging from clouds,
dome-vines and balcony-sun.
wind for windows.
and birdsong for rain.
freedom is this.
this kingdom we made from purgatory
and olive green and brown and brown and brown
and these unceremonious crystals
of our misshapen bones.
freedom has never meant heaven for us.
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