I am beginning to question the identity of the creator of this, so ornate a cage, around me.
I know I did it before.
I spent years spinning brittle bones out of my spirit to form an ever creeping interwoven and impenetrable prison.
Because I needed it. Out there was too bright, too hopeful and too dangerous for words, and I had so many precious words that I had to keep them all to myself because without them, nothing else mattered. Nothing else could make me feel, except the fire, and I wasn’t selling tickets to that show. I had years of silence, carving feathers and runes into those bones, making amateur art from the grotesque.
I don’t know when, precisely, the pressure shifted and the creaking bars began their retreat. Sucking their own marrow back into my psyche. The clouds began to peek through the lifeless and hopeless remains of my chamber and in that moment, just as the words gushed out, the warmth bled in. Fire and bones and hope were reunited with the hungry sky.
Yet here I am chastened again. Bound in this swaying cage with no recollection of its crude construction. Confused and irreconcilable because all I long to do is reach out and touch you. I trace the bars with my jagged nails knowing the only way out is to bleed the words, but what if it’s not my words that must undo the spell this time? Or worse, what if it is and I’ve been wasting my months waiting to be saved?
“What wasted unconditional love
Who doesn’t believe in the stuff
Oh, well”~fiona apple, oh well