Blink of an Eye


Photo by Chermiti Mohamed from Pexels.com




I.


I was born a golden china doll.

At least, that’s what everyone

taught me to be.

She sang I was her only sunshine,

made her happy when skies are gray,

over and over —

until I could smile through the pain.

I learned how to close my eyes one day

where I lived more awake.

I took spaceships to other worlds

I understood more fully

than me

counting down the days.



II.


Every sunrise I’d awake like an internal clockwork

to the echoing songs

the birds would line the walls

of the parking lot below with.

I was frozen and sore,

but with eyes closed,

I knew—

a vivid world of feathered creatures

had come to give me the wings I prayed for.



III.


As a grown child

in adult clothing,

I find myself shedding

the life of a careless past.

The person I’ve pushed aside inside

is starting to bloom.

Because I’m untangling their darkness

and have crossed paths with a glow that exists.

So I line my insides with him.

Like the beautiful chirps that did below my window.

So when my eyes go dark,

kaleidoscope daydreams

of another world I built

are explored with endless wonder,

and childlike curiosity.



IV.


I’ve painted towns

with our charisma,

crumbled mountain ridges

with our laughter,

put out fires

with the tears he’ll never share with me.

Because I’m afraid,

it’s not rejection I fear.

It’s grasping the splendor of my universe;

I tuck hidden from him

behind a worn-down wink,

and losing all the wonder—

to a line drawn in the sand.

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