Chained to these walls
I can see only the shadows
The fire gives light to these dark silhouettes
I call them by their names
Puppets, people, or books.
They're  my company and must be real.
I perceive only what I see.
Silhouettes and shadows that are real to me.
I force myself to turn
My shackles are tight
I embrace the company of  my companions
Puppets, people, and books.
I know them by no other names.


Inspired by The Allegory of The Cave

I used to melt so easily-
The touch of a hand,
the whisper of sweet nothings.
I had a constant yearning
for the warmth of another.

I was stuck in a hollow
gelatinous state,
Ready to mold myself into
any desired shape.

But now, my exterior
has become much harder,
layers of stone
to protect an interior that's softer.

Now requiring others
to do a lot more forging
and convincing myself
to do a lot less morphing.

Following the lines of the wrist
The shadows and grooves
And at a certain angle, the tendons can be seen
If you closed your fist tightly
The whites of your knuckles against flesh tones
With streaks of green blue purple
Of arteries, veins, capillaries forming a pulsing network
I like the shape of your wrists

When I swallow
My larynx constricts
There's a sharp pain at the top of my throat
I drink some water but it doesn't go away
It's as if there's an arrow through my throat
The arrow head poking out from the front
Like a pendant
You grab the end of the arrow from the back of my head
And wrenched it out

There are stars in the sky and laughter across my ears
I am smiling in my mind
So I am not prepared for the world to shatter around me
In one gasp of breath, black paint spills over all I see

My hands clutch to my core
Trying to stop the bleeding from a wound that never was there
The pain so complete, I must be dying
I'm endlessly dying

I would rip my heart from my own chest if that would stop the pain

When the world returns, I turn my eyes desperately to the stars
As if tethering myself to each one so they can't run away again
I tell myself
I could never give up this life under their watch

Please don't let the stars go out

I remember the first time
that I was called pretty.
I was eight years old.
I remember feeling
a bubble of insecurity
hover around me,
like an ant
under a microscope.
At eight years old,
I had experienced
my very first wave
of expectations of women
in a male dominated society.
I had no idea
that would be the first
of many by the time
I reached womanhood.
I was just a child.
I loved playing in the dirt,
and capturing bull frogs.
I was a girl
who played like a boy.
I never thought I was pretty,
not because I had
low self esteem,
but because
I was eight years old.
I was to young
to have pretty
wrapped up in my identity.
Fast forward
eight more years.
I am sixteen now.
I am no longer
playing in the dirt,
or capturing bull frogs.
I am painting my nails
bright pink,
and dying my hair
every two weeks.
I am trying to be pretty.
I am no longer
feeling the bubble of insecurity.
I am living in it
twenty four seven.
I am always concerned
with how I look,
how I act,
and what I say.
I am a girl
who is no longer a tomboy.
I am just a girl.
I no longer know
who I am,
because I am
not allowed
to be who I am.
I am expected
to sit quietly
in the corner,
straightening my hair,
perfecting my makeup,
so that a boy
who loves my body
can tell me he loves me,
and make me his wife.
Fast forward
4 more years.
I am twenty now.
I am numb
to the insecurity.
I am now expected
to live in a suburb,
raise three kids,
clean the house,
love my husband,
and my white picket fence.
I am just another girl
who is seen as pretty.
I am living a lifeless life.
I am at a crossroads
to either stay down
under the weight
of societies expectations,
or burn my picket fence
right down to the ground.
I am remembering
that tomboy I was
before I was called pretty.
I can either reconnect
with her fierceness,
or hide beyond a mask
of beige concealer.
I can either be a dove,
or I can be a phoenix.
I think
the choice is obvious.