We all spend
our youth
swallowing corks and
things that close like
hinges off the door.
They make our mouths
and we take keys and sew
them shut.
We don’t know.
There’s rust by the time we’re twenty and we spend those years remembering that hinges don’t break and we can pull the cork from our lungs and shout.
“I am beautiful, too.”
To the empty spaces.
We spill our guts like warm wines on the white clothes we wore.
And we sing praise to us.
Because we’ve spent too long
in the cellar.
We are dirty. With raw throats.
But the words are strong.
“I am beautiful, too.”
“Listen to me.”
I am right because I
am finally mine.
And for the rest of my life I will drink.
My words.
To me. And to us.
“My chest is an empty
rib cage, but it is filled
with hope.”
It keeps me open.


Take me. Take me. Take me back to the point where horizons kiss and the sun touches my face and holds us above the water like solar flares roaring across the sky. Find me at the end. Of your. Subconscious finger pantings. We can close our eyes. Let gravity hold us. And kiss our wishes onto each other like colorful love letters. I want all over and inside. Of your heart. You’re the painter of my most beautiful dreams. Leave your brushes and touch me. With your hands.

And into that light we break the darkened fingers of our hopes. We’ve bled into voice and there is a gape. Within our caged lungs. We breathe easy knowing. Seeing the worth of effort. And the price of nerves. But breaking bones anyway with that first free breath. That’s freedom.
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