I lived in a cage.
I loved it.
The bars were golden.
They were polished each day
...
They shaped the mold before I arrived,
A perfect cast where all compiled.
I was meant to be poured, settle and fit,
But I hardened too soon and fractured it.
...
For the favor you did but never let me forget,
for the "no pressure" laced with regret.
for every "no big deal" that came with fine print,
I paid with a thank you,
...
A velvet-heavy, honey-spiced cake
sat on a table spread vast.
soft enough for fingers to disappear into,
dense enough to still
...
Four Small Lives
I lived in a cage.
I loved it.
The bars were golden.
They were polished each day
by hands that said they loved me.
I never asked who locked the door.
I lived in a pond.
I loved it.
It was shallow,
but it mirrored what I wanted to believe.
I never asked for more.
The lily roots were enough.
I lived in a cocoon.
I loved it.
Silence wrapped me like a prophecy.
I believed wings were a myth,
and becoming was for someone else.
I folded in on purpose.
I lived in a bubble.
I loved it.
It shimmered with the truths I preferred.
No one could reach me.
No one asked me to leave.
It kept me hollow, but whole.
Now I am out,
The world is too wide,
I had made myself too small
to fit those shapes.
They call this freedom.
I carry it like grief.
I don't write for popularity. I don't write for posterity. I write for possibility—for what a single line might open, shift, or soften in someone else.