The morning cracks like a porcelain egg,
hairline fractures leaking light,
I rise from the sheets - a small,
determined ghost - and feel the day pin me to it's wheel.
In the mirror, my face swims up,
pale as a moth struggling from a chrysalis,
wings still wet with whatever dream
refused to let me go.
Even my breath feels borrowed.
Outside, the trees practice thier quiet violence,
stripping themselves bare
just to survive the cold.
I envy thier certainty -
the clean bone-deep knowledge
of what must be shed.
But the heart is an instrument .
It clangs, it riots
In the cathedral of my ribs
Demanding fire, demanding release -
a crimson, reckless hope
that refuses to be reasoned with.
So I carry it with me, this fragile insurgency ,
through the hours that loom
like locked doors.
And if the world won't open -
I'll split myself instead.
Let the light pour through the seems.