Used to be
I hated poetry,
Prose just spoke to the child in me,
Who always colored inside the lines;
Too afraid of what could happen outside,
With no structure, only patterns of lines
Where we put up boundaries like hung laundry,
Clipped to the line, dripping with regret;
Praying in waiting for time and sunshine
To dry up the past and erase stains
From memories in traumatized minds,
Dragged through the mud, shoved into boxes,
Left to mold and mildew on damp floors
Soaked in breath-stealing spore structures
Molded, bloody, but concealing truth
We longed to tell, but kept hidden, breathless,
Stifled in closets, where we always returned,
Borders for borders; safe, clean;
Kept inside while we waited, and grew,
Shedding clothes like we shed skins–
Outgrowing ourselves, and learning
How to conceal ourselves in color
And care more for it than ourselves,
Who we buried beneath posed prose
Hiding shallow breath in hollow structure,
Desperate to step outside & breathe.