she called me icarus–
underfeeding that naivete
does not shrink it,
and instead I reached for a sun
I knew would burn me
yet, I stayed.
accusation–
bitter on the tongue and heart,
a beat beat beating drum,
a xylophone ribcage
morphed to prison bars.
yet, I longed for the sky.
how can you expect me to stand still,
with the taste of salt on my tongue?