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By Olivia C
i sat in a wicker chair, bloodied fingers dragging across spines of books,
waiting to feel a curve down my finger the same way the doctor warned me my spine might too.
just like my mother.
i’ve sat in movie theaters and left feeling baptised and broken,
i’ve layed down with music flowing into my ears like a hymn.
i’ve kissed enough girls to know when too much tounge is enough,
i’ve pet enough dogs to tell you my favorite breed.
i’ve sat in desks and beds with my finger three pages ahead the one im reading.
preparing.
i once saw a film about a boy with baggage,
and how the tiger materalzied his grief.
and when he yelled at his dad, and finally freed the beast,
he could walk again.
and when i cried in that office with my mom,
and let him hold my hand while i suffocated,
and let my dad rub my back while i choked on words,
and when i kissed her for the first time,
and her hand reached my soul and biggest burden which rested in my chest,
i had discovered that the gaps of sunlight were only showing
through the bars of a cage.
i had to ask myself why,
was it the first time i dragged metal accross my skin?
did i hit my head during meltdowns so hard that it was purged out of me?
did i fall in love enough times?
and fear my body all while playing tag with desire?
did i bound myself to carry this like a child on a woman’s back?
was it the water that blistered my hands and the fire that soothed me?
do i carry my baggage or do i wear it?
in all of these people i love there is hospitality,
empty dressers and a space in their cup for my toothbrush.
and in her kiss i found religion,
and in his hugs i found solace,
and in my family’s love i found my becoming.
and in myself i found the answer to the only question i had been to afraid to ask as a child.
i still don’t know what the question is,
and that is the greatest answer.
i am not my burdens
i am a soul and i have a body.