I cried
I died
I arrived
Totally revived
...amp...

oh, to live with sadness, so deep — it has started spreading;
i can feel its crushing weight: a stampede.

my trampled bones have started to resemble
wildflowers as they decay
and the soil flinches at the sight
of something so pure —
something so tainted.

behold, the lamb of god
has become the big, cruel wolf;
this is what happens to delicate things
after they're done breaking —
after they're done rotting.
this is what happens to pure things
after the sins and sacrificial rites.

behold, the lamb of god —
the scapegoat
has become the wolf

and one day, it will outrun the forest fog — spreading —
consuming.
devouring.
one day, it will outrun the howling in its chest.
one day it will outrun the ironic aching of ribs, long emptied.

oh, to be a girl and not a wolf.
to live with sadness and trampled bones.
maybe one day, i too, will outrun myself

I built my nest upon a hill
to gase at the striking view,
a spectrum of vibrant colours,
the seasons of my life renewed.
...amp...

This is my park,
It's in between the pages of a paper
Where I write in large to pour out my heart
The place my peace is found
This is my park, and it's my diary

The builders let me visit here
free to roam the halls.
They’ve built some walls
and stairs
to upper floors with streaming light
and to a darkened basement.

I’m honored to be allowed here
to write words on the wood
to see pages posted that could
render me speechless if I let them.
But instead, these writings of pain
these revelations of shame
are like knives that pierce my heart
and I pour it out on the floor
and ceiling and dark corners
through the windows
into the night
into the light.

The builders nail their dreams
and desperation and beams
of hope, desire and grief
and lattice of love and belief
trying to do their part to complete
the work of this edifice rising
each day each hour
we builders immigrants
looking for home.