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the more shadows I see.
They burden my nights
with fitful spells of sleep
and dreaming in forsaken roles
as daughter of the diaspora
where waking up seems wrong
like I have somehow sold out
and betrayed my true north.
There’s a foreign taste of
bitter sky in my mouth
from when I kissed the clouds
and I am quite possibly
tormented by parallel lives
that different versions of me
could be living outside of this
magnetic field of choices
and consequences,
and I only feel free when
I’m dancing with utter abandon
to songs that were playing
on the radio on the nights
when I rested my head
on the glass that framed the city
that had yet to break my heart
for the second time
while I crossed a bridge to where
my most innocent understanding
of desire would be fed and
find a home. The last few
moments before the first real
thing would go wrong.
I don’t remember associating it
with flight, but I’ve flown
afterward and that’s exactly
what it felt like.
I feel older, finding wrinkles
in my perception of how
this shit called living
should be done, like moving in
to a new home and it’s all
fully furnished but none of it
is mine though technically
I only stole it from that image
of myself on my mind that
promised things in exchange for
what I thought I wanted.
But I wasn’t really sure.
And by Jove, I got it
and must have paid the price,
for the next thing I know
I am holding a sleeping child
and I have a ring on my hand
and I’m trying to shuffle
creative ways to say
that I’m afraid. Afraid
that I might be unhappy.
So I dance
to the aforementioned songs
but the lyrics don’t mean
what they used to mean.
And I wonder if this is
my soul’s code word for a
crash landing.

“Bodyscape” by photographer Anton Belovodchenko


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