How do I speak up for myself
when every man I meet
pulls out my teeth?

What do I say to the skeletons in the closet?
Their bones know no warmth, their bodies are long gone.
The only conversations I have with them are their ankles and fingers sighing forward against the door, only moved by the wind.

You speak to me,
want to bring me up tough,
but I'm a gentle, soft winged bird.
These songs aren't sung about war,
I only breathe about love and loving.

(I wish I could take myself to where the sun is always shining and skin is never blue, where the Earth is always quiet.)