Slowly rising from the wound
of my lost mother's womb,
I extend my fingers
and reach out to grab a star,
but only extract a cloud.
I carefully wrap my fingers
around your temporary soul,
and I unlock the cage
where we have been trapped
for countless years.
With bitter scars in your eyes
and hopeless songs in your smile,
I give you a melody for all
of your troubles and a gift
that we can't escape,
no matter how hard we try.
No matter how hard we die.
I've turned my aggression into beautiful inspiration,
the kind my mother's legacy and its generous depression
could never afford me,
even if I'm still anxiously waiting it out.
I'm building a secret
for the heirs to dissect,
a puzzle full of sirens.
I left a mark on your artificial soul,
and I slowly learned your name
through cleansing my dirty prints
and bleaching every last mask
we sold to our ancestors
to reap us a memory.
You should stop calling every little nightmare
of yours a precious excuse for a melody.
We'll fall apart in time, if only to wipe the bullets
from our parents' approval, something always short
of what our destiny is supposed to be,
despite our strongest protests.
So I shave off my guilt
and shake off the bronze ankle chains
and burn off these wings that never fit
me or helped me fit in and so on.
I carve my name in stone
and wash away the dirt
from under my fingernails,
clutching this empty custody
in the mouth of a fist.
