She moves in all six directions –
wind-borne, unbroken, iridescent.
A body of whispered rebellion,
Holding the world between her teeth.
With wings turning light into something sharper,
and filling the air within her lungs with secrets.
She stitches shut the lips
of those who speak too much,
too loud, too honest.
She dances to the sound of
silence blooming amidst the lies
with a needle through lips that dare too much.
A mouth sewn shut is just another kind of hunger,
and she has known hunger too long.
She knows that perception is a trick of angles;
So she trains light to bend to her will.
You see what you’re shown and you’re in for a treat.
She is summer singing itself awake.
Stronger than you think,
sweeter even still.
It’s the joy of trying to dance with your feet in the mud, you’re stuck and it’s still a relief.
She is the reason this world exists.
She is addicted to being the glue that holds everything together –
Even as the stickiness of it pulls at her skin,
Even as she wonders if the mess is worth it.
The glue, the weight, the unease.
Sticky, messy, necessary.
They sing of better days ahead.
But she has always known
that better was never given—
it was carved,
stitched,
flown toward.
She wants to exist in spite of the spite
Not just cling to the edges of things.
To be worth the mess she makes.
To be the movement between stillnesses.
To be in every direction at once.
To move in all six directions
And never stop.
She moves in all six directions –
wind-borne, unbroken, iridescent.
A body of whispered rebellion,
Holding the world between her teeth.
Wings turning light into something sharper,
She fills the air within her lungs with secrets.
She stitches the lips
of those who speak too much,
too loud, too honest.
And dances to the sound of silence that blooms
She knows that perception is a trick of angles;
So she trains light to bend to her will.
You see what you’re shown and you’re in for a treat.
She is summer singing itself awake.
Stronger than you think,
sweeter even still.
It’s the joy of trying to dance with your feet in the mud, you’re stuck and it’s still a relief.
She is the reason this world exists.
The glue that holds everything together –
Even as the stickiness of it pulls at her skin,
Even as she wonders if the mess is worth it, she can’t get enough of it .
The pull, the weight, the unease.
Sticky, messy, necessary.
They sing of better days ahead.
But she has always known
that better was never given—
it was carved,
stitched,
flown toward.
She wants to exist in spite of the spite
Not just cling to the edges of things.
To be worth the mess she makes.
To be the movement between stillnesses.
To be in every direction at once
And never stop.
