The world is large, but so am I.

An ocean of confused compassion

rolls through my veins,

and I balance boulders 

on unmanicured fingertips. 

When the world raises its voice,

tides of hate bloom from boiling blood.

But my voice can shake the ground, too.

My whispers spin webs of silence,

deep and delicate as the scent of lavender. 

Sometimes I think my footsteps vanish —

swallowed up by the infinite abyss of 

soil and sky. But then I remember

that my feet carry the weight 

of molten memories:

the time I took a shot at my sister,

my balled fist leaving a trail of blood 

dripping from her nose;

the time I held my mother’s shoulders,

being her breath 

as she shivered through tides of heaving sobs;

the year where I refused to eat dinner;

the year where I was nothing 

more than a corpse.

These moments are branded on my throat.

They sing incessant whispers 

of guilt and grief — the same soundtrack

that plagues the mind of my 

across-the-street neighbor. 

I guess my film reel of hurt 

tethers me

to a bustling mass of humanity

connects me

to an accordion of paper dolls come to life.

Hand in hand we shout up at the clouds,

The world is large, but so are we.