Practicing poetry, or something like it – On the weight of cultural expectations and cheap ideas of standard.
Listening to: “Meo Blodnasir” by Sigur Ros
We fall on our knees for them,
kissing royal rings costumed as acceptance.
We hustle for them,
holding umbrellas of standard, muscles seizing.
We shrink and shape and contort for them,
buzz palpitating, paper bags on our lips.
We would do anything
to be liked, or loved, or known; exhaustion.
Can you catch it?
Tear the fabric, call out to your sisters.
Climb up the pole your tendrils shake on
and peek your soul through the tip top.
The roof is made of aluminum illusions,
shimmering bounty but offering a crumb.
You are made for abundance.
It’s okay you didn’t know.
Let your curiosity climb, growing one.
When ceilings become your canvas,
go ahead and speckle your truth around this wide life.
Slow and warming as sun on the dampened;
light and seasoned and honest and rich.
Then, when the open sky of belonging fills you,
return down the whisper of your learning;
That we are loved after all, no confirmation needed.
And feet can dangle, here, atop this umbrella.