I was molded to please
Eyes wide in eagerness, smile small
sweetness drips from every word that escapes me
Taught to care, to cater, to serve
I've treated objects better than they've treated me
Don't touch me, I'm all I have left
If I could, I would've raised myself
Raised her to be stronger, louder, braver
I would've loved her more
If every hand that touched me left a mark,
where is my skin?

Did they mention your birthright was
the world itself?
Did they tell you, the day you were born,
the stars gave you a name,
casting it down to your cradle?

Did you know you were made to dream,
to create worlds with every stroke?
It was their best and worst mistake—
to hand you a paintbrush. Or did they know,
you could translate dreams onto paper?

And you dreamed,
of course—
dreamed of pulling down clouds,
of building castles tall enough
to kiss the stars. But—
"Not yet," they said,
"Let her grow stronger,
brighter,
brilliant—so bright the stars
will envy her light,
and ****** her from the ground
to join their constellations."

Dream more, girl—
the sky says hello.

My father, almost shaken by the thought
of handling a dead body,
my mother voices disbelief,
saying she could not have done what I did.

I told them I had placed
the body inside a sack,
tied it with straw—
I told them of the stiffness,
the dull eyes, and the open mouth.

But I didn’t tell them I had stroked her neck,
like I did when she was a puppy,
closed her mouth, her eyes—
a prayer, a gesture to make her whole again.
I didn’t tell them the ritual
of care, small and sacred,
the tenderness that lingered
in her rigid, cold form.

I didn’t tell them what I was thinking,
what that silence did to me—
the emptiness of it,
what it had done to my mind.

I dreamt I was a fish, adrift in the sea’s slow breath,
Held by currents, free from time’s cruel tether
I dreamt I was a dog, fur alive with the soil’s embrace,
Paws pounding earth, a soul bound to the chase.
I dreamt I was a bird, my wings cleaving the open sky,
Beak tasting cloud and rain, a creature of the fall
I hate being human—
the weight of knowing, the ache of feeling,
the endlessness of thought
I long to unlearn, to feel without thought,
To live where the mind’s cruel grasp is not