The world is large, but so am I.
An ocean of confused compassion
rolls through my veins,
and I balance boulders
on unmanicured fingertips.
When the world raises its voice,
tides of hate bloom from boiling blood.
But my voice can shake the ground, too.
My whispers spin webs of silence,
deep and delicate as the scent of lavender.
Sometimes I think my footsteps vanish —
swallowed up by the infinite abyss of
soil and sky. But then I remember
that my feet carry the weight
of molten memories:
the time I took a shot at my sister,
my balled fist leaving a trail of blood
dripping from her nose;
the time I held my mother’s shoulders,
being her breath
as she shivered through tides of heaving sobs;
the year where I refused to eat dinner;
the year where I was nothing
more than a corpse.
These moments are branded on my throat.
They sing incessant whispers
of guilt and grief — the same soundtrack
that plagues the mind of my
I guess my film reel of hurt
to a bustling mass of humanity
to an accordion of paper dolls come to life.
Hand in hand we shout up at the clouds,
The world is large, but so are we.