We’re broken shells.
Hollow husks.
Our skin long burned away by the pressure of the world.
Their hate forcing us to build iron walls out of rods,
criss-crossing and twisting inside.
Piercing flesh and rupturing organs,
causing blood to flow inside of
us – irregular.
So damaged,
but we won’t let others hear our cries
no matter how soaked our pillows get;
despair flowing like rivers.
The world made us grow too fast,
but forgot to teach us how to survive.
Threw us out on our backsides as
scrapes, cuts, and bruises waited to give us their kisses,
hidden among the shadows in the alley.
Yet we struggled to see them for what they truly were.
Our empty souls, and the longing for
something – anything –
mistook envy and jealousy for affection.
And then we grew to hate,
until we were alone.
All alone.
Cuddle them, hold them close,
little fairy lights among the wreckage.
Cries pierced through our lips.
Our tongues becoming knives and
our words too sharp, cutting and slashing.
Even as we begged for help.
So we locked ourselves deep inside our cages –
the silence in our hearts louder than our voices could ever be.
Rewound clocks that had never let time pass,
and only then did we light fires from our dead ashes.
Our pain led flowers to bloom from within.
Glowing petals slowly unravelling to remind us that we were still here,
we weren’t alone.
Hate may have driven us apart but
our roots would always recognize each other.
And even among the iron cage we closed ourselves into,
we would always hold the key to freeing ourselves.
If only we would try.
Photo: Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com
