Given the galaxies to explore,
should we be surprised you stretched beyond
what the cartographers and astronomers knew?
The very pen I used to calligraphy my soul
ripped from my hands like a planchette
to summon ghosts of what was left behind.
My sanctuary became a crematorium of dreams
as flames engulfed the diaries I had etched
my life into.
The smell of space shuttle fuel was the only footprint he had left behind.
I screamed the loudest whisper I dared to express
like a matchstick being struck or a witch at the stake.
(Of course, no one heard it,
but this isn’t another martyr story.)
Scorched pages cannot tell stories,
but I never realized til this moment
your arson was an attempt at poisoning my love.
Now, I raise my voice and kick in doors.
I rescue who I can but not as a sacrifice.
(I’m not that nice of a person
because my sins outweigh my strengths.)
Exhausted of being complicit and lying in bed
with the monsters,
I use my voice to save me.
(If it saves you along the way,
that’s a beautiful accident.)
I refuse to be less than I am,
yet in calm library whispers, you implore me
to not overgrow my home like an ivy
or crawling weed,
but don’t you remember the galaxies
you had been granted as a child?
It’s my turn to take up space.