When did your home become a prison? and I don't mean the home you share, the home you paint, the home you lay shattered glass to rest, or the home you know to find loved ones.
What I mean is you. Your skin, that changes colour at the suns will. Skin that everyone else sees, and the water touches. Where the chemicals of fragrances collect-- where you have felt kisses and anguish. I mean your bones, that could break so easily but they carried you long after you forgot their strength. I mean the rib cage that holds all of you in. The air that rests between your lungs, and everything that's wired to your heart. I mean the signals that form your words, and the sound of your voice that old lovers still mourn about. When did your home become a prison? When did you forget that no one else has the keys? That freedom doesn't have to feel like a tired walk home?
YOU ARE READING
A Change Of Heart
PoetryHealing isn't the easiest thing for me to do. I've tried to find it in between pages and rib cages. In loud rooms and the quiet of racing heartbeats. In poetry and rage. In that space between childhood and growing pains. In apologies that I refuse t...
