Someone told me I’m like an elephant,
Too weak to break down barriers so that even when I become strong I still spend my existence thinking I’m tied by oppression when in reality I’m tied by routine.
This is my narration
I’m stripped of motivation and dressed with hesitation
Proof proof proof is like a whip to those who can’t understand what the voice in my hands is trying to say
And sometimes I fling televisions at trees and yell at them to watch movies instead of me because maybe then I’d grow tall and beautiful and they wouldn’t
And I wear boots up to my knees with little bruises peeking out of the tops where my bone meets my shin and I wear them like a hot new accessory
And I just panicked because I forgot how old I was.
Seventeen is a year for leopards that run faster than the moon revolves around the earth but at least the leopard can run in whichever direction is chooses without having to worry about the sun burning it to ashes.
This is my moment to refute.
One. I try to be the leopard but I think I’m the moon
Two. Sanity is a very tough thing to think about because how can you wrap your head around an idea that is as thin as the air that we sometimes forget to breathe? Well, I suppose it makes sense, how can we wrap our heads around anything when these ideas should be wrapping themselves around us?
Three. My dad taught me binary when I was six and I believe that’s the reason that I speak in zeros
Four. I adore your smile but I’d never tell you that because I’d never be able to yell it across six states when I can’t even whisper it to the boy who sits behind me in economy class
Five. I hope someday my words roll off my tongue as alive as the day I killed the grass in front of the white house
Six. Maybe you’ll be an exception. Maybe this is the conclusion.