I am a lighthouse ,
my fire burning behind my eyes
from beneath  
all my
hollow walls
made of sinew
and flesh made
of masks and
raised scar tissues  
on foundation of brittle,
shaking bones.
vibrating harshly against every storm,

someone beautiful told me
I am more then the compilation of all these scars
and not to worry so closely over my broken bits
I am more than the sum of my parts.
I am no ship wreck
I am no cold stone
or simple sharp edge
I am no longer afraid of the marks
carved into my flesh
while scooping up my shattered sense
of self image

broken mirrors
become the stepping stones
to torn down walls
and open spaces
to the waiting arms
of vacancy
of lonely
of alone
and eventually
of a new home
just needed time in my own skin
and to be brave enough
to look in the mirror ,
here is to
better self images,
Still
after all this renovation
I am
still the
lighthouse
still waiting for you to come home.

to the one I love
hold me tighter when the weight of all that is absent spreads my ribs-
creating to much space inside me
falling hallow on my empty bones.
the sound of your voice bouncing inside my empty head
-sweet tone-
bouncing inside this vacancy
all this space they occupied in my genome
in my past in the deep hollow recesses of my feeling.
barricade deep in my youngest memories.

resonating still inside me pulling me forward and back from within myself,
it is far to little to say I am missing them.
I finally understand the emptiness they used to show me in there eyes.
I finally understand the brokenness they showed in their smiles,

leave it to the eager eyes of a child the intuition of a poet to truly unravel -
how ribs actually become cages.
only I do not have the key Maya Angelou gripped in her teeth-
I do not posses the pen Emily Dickinson freed feathers with -
I only know the horrible sound birds make when slowly smothered-
I only know the feeling of watching birds of my feather drop
from the top of wide open hearts -
to the bottom of cold black cages.

I say this with memories passed down from wring worn hands-
holding open my wings with warm gales
spoken from the  wide popsicle grins of my grandfather-
who showed me the courage it takes to hold onto innocence.
to feel outside the barrier of my own skin.  
he held me up my rib cage to the sky to remind me,
the only thing between my bird and open air is myself.
I have no key I have no real words worth ink
I only have the remembrance of wings beating rapidly from trapped places
trying desperately-
to show me what flying might feel like.

I hold the memories of the most perfect songs thrumming in my feeling
I am just a mockingbird remembering the sound of old heart beats
remembering the courage it takes to live outside myself
lest I become my own cage when I have not yet a single key
not yet any real memory made loud enough
to clear my thoughts
of the horrible sounds of birds fighting against black cages

I want to taste the sky my grandfather held me to .
I want you
the one who loves me
to be safe so I may venture outside myself without fear.
let me make my way inside your chest and nest there-
free to explore the vast recesses of your feeling maybe-
there somewhere buried
you, the one I love
have the key to free this hope deep inside me.
maybe you the one I love are my open skies-
because when  you really see me-
that is the only time
I can look inside at all this empty space and feel free
of all the lonely
in these memories.

you the one I love can tell Angelou
I too
know why the caged bird sings-
And ,you, my open skies -
are why
this caged bird does
so sweetly-
cry.