On this page, I'm in spring
the flowers blooming,
birds chirping,
and nature, flourishing.

On the next page, it's winter
the leaves are withered,
the floor, snow-covered
and nature, from the cold shivers.

On the following page, I'm royalty,
basking in wealth and glory,
overlooking the masses,
whilst enjoying all delicacies.

On the following one, I'm on the streets,
scavenging and pilfering,
experiencing what life is
for the destitute.

Each page takes me
on a different journey.
It wraps me amidst its words
and carries me along in its story.
It's neverending and ever-soothing.

To you, I might appear lost;
as I am drowned in the world of books;
my mind drifting from one universe
to another.
But I can't be anymore aware,
right, found, and alive in this world,
than I am in reality.

A Stepmother’s voice cuts
through the campground:
Who left the cooler open?
Who moved the ******* cushions?
Her words snap the branches.

My father, just arrived,
hat wet with sweat,
stooped to tie the boat off at a tree,
met at once by her complaints,
her tally of our failures.

Her glare pressed hot against my back.
I climbed the pine,
legs scraping bark,
eyes fixed on the shimmer below-
anywhere but here.

She was there:
elbow on the water’s skin,
hair spread like wet silk,
eyes pouring over me.
Come with me, she said.

Where?

Down there.
She smiled, copper arm pointing to the deep.
It’s warm.
The fish brush your skin.

I remembered: sirens don’t save you.
They keep you.

She dove,
silver tearing water’s face,
and the lake closed like a locked door.

When she rose,
her shoulders gleamed like knives.
Laughter rolled toward me,
the same heat as the shore,
only sweeter.

Your turn.

I leapt.
The lake’s mouth closed over me.
Green-gold everywhere.
Her hair against my cheek.
Her tail’s slow beckoning.

I followed
until the light shattered above.
I almost stayed-
not to drown,
but to live where the voices could not reach.

nothing changes.
the beat in my mind
knocks on
in dull succession,

as i slowly suffocate
beneath the hum
of the melody,
in the unadorned cage
of my own reflection.

I feel it—
that quiet, creeping fear
in the corners of comfort.
Fear of losing the warmth of home,
the steady presence of my parents,
the easy laughter of being with my people
in the way things used to be.

I used to dream of eighteen—
freedom like fire,
nights humming with possibility,
suitcases and skylines,
living loudly
without permission.

But now that I’m here,
freedom feels fragile,
and the dreams are quieter
than the fear that found me.

I just turned eighteen—
and somehow,
the whole world shifted with me.

You told me
to gather all my things
and leave.

I did.
I didn’t hesitate.

It was as if you had opened
the cage door
that had been keeping me trapped.

I guess I’m sorry
it wasn’t me
who said it first.
But I’m glad—
because this time,
I didn’t let the chance
slip away.

I chose you—
different from before.
Not to be saved,
but because in you
I find freedom.

You asked me:
if every card,
every oracle,
God,
every sign
pointed to you—
and my heart
pointed to you—

would I have the courage
to send you the red heart?

Yes.
I have the courage.

I will respect you.
You did it
you climbed out of the hole
you once called home
and you flew.
Fly, my love,
you are free
to soar.

I can be a woman
I can be feminine
I can be a girlfriend
I can be a wife
I can be a mother
I can be all these things at once
and still be me
I can be everything I want to be
not to save someone
not to heal someone
but because this is who I am
it’s how I came into this world