To the songs that soothe our souls—
Birds, who give voice to the dust on butterfly wings,
that set flight to hearts that weigh more, in life,
than this human body can bring

To the women, who hold me in their arms—
Mothers whose love gives birth to all others,
their lips, dripping with truths we crave to read
in the lies of men that can’t, who weren’t made to, bleed.

To the love rising from the ashes within me,
turning dust to nectar, nourishing
petals that sprout, even through fallen leaves.

To the mind, that relentless dynamo,
that wonders, even as I slumber.

To these hips I haven’t mastered
how to shake, that I call home.

To these hardy bones
I fear to break, that I know one day
will wither away.

To these eyes, I know
take me deeper
inside

To the true me, myself, and I,
I’ve always known.

To the one who reads these words,
a reflection, a shadow

That, beneath a fruit tree
already lived and died
longer than

You, or me,
an extension of interconnection,
sparks that lead us back to one eternal flame
from which we all light, and delight,
in one another.

To the hands that type, these words
into a device that may one day enslave me

To pen and paper that cramps my hand,
an addictive catharsis that gives semblance to

This life, this foreign concept,
a system my brain can’t think itself free from,
a headache, a heartache, all at once
felt and embraced,
yet unbound.

For all of this,
I am grateful.