The world around me should walk on eggshells,
while I stomp like the elephant
I claim I am.
Elephants.
Monstrous, lumbering things.
Ancient and wise
Not like I,
blubbering as if I were a 2-year-old.
Wishing I could scream and throw things, like a 5-year-old.
I do.
I understand children, for I understand the spirit in them
that has not yet been broken.
A spirit of mine,
which I wish that I could break.
Like rib bones and bird cages,
that hold singing hearts.
Chirping in the morning like promises.
I’ve watched so many of my birds die.
Blue jays, with wings like parasites.
Taking all that I have
and the wind.
Spitting raindrops at outstretched hands,
biting their long fingers.
Loneliness is a friend of that song.
It’s in lullabies sung by my mother,
and the eyes and words of my father.
These are lullabies that are begged for,
left unappreciated.
For I live in my mind,
where people’s expressions are my own.
And I have the expressions of those who hate and fear mine.
For in my mind, I am never so lost
as I am now.
Going only where I believe
my body
can be found.