Birthed to write poetry, and rituals
to shake hands and touch flowers.
to grieve if I have loved and to paint the ruins of surviving,
The storm passes and I’m supposed to sit still as a hurricane beautifully destroying a city,
to cradle pain in one hand and joy like an over pampered child rejecting the homemade candy which is me.
I was born to eat desserts and drink tequila without lime or salt,
face rumpled up and alive so freaking alive.
to daydream in trains and fall down the escalators with embarrassment moping in the corner as I refused to be shamed for doing human things like falling,
I was born to be so raw like the fresh taste of bad news running round a city,
I was born to be so alive like the veins of a church during Sunday service.
isn’t it so tender ?
being alive ?
isn’t it so violent ?
being alive ?


© Hope