you open all the blinds for moonlight
to make a place at your dining table
the radical yellowed pages say “liberty is an illusion”
& you must agree,
crouched on your cold chair in a t-shirt
& underwear. eating tomato soup.

today you screamed at a wall,
punched it, apologized,
& spent two hours in silence
simmering soup.
he told you yesterday you were pretty,
his voice a tiny radio under the
corner of your ear.
sometimes it feels nice, you concede,
to be reduced to simply the
skin hiding your delicate lungs &
your bones holding back
pent-up dewdrops of contemplation.

you pretend that you’ve always
only told the truth,
& your friends toss
their silky heads back and forth
like ribboned horses,
laughing at your attempt.

in class an invisible shovel
hits your hand down, presses the blade
to your chin &
begs you to stay silent or
sudden shame will engulf
your already red cheeks
& the cycle starts anew.
you live among extremes
push yourself to every edge, never doubting
the small rocks at the bottom of the fall.
in your cluttered glory

you are expectant of change,
& soon. the garden tools bringing
dirt to line your skin & remind you
of the glorious gold of dawn
as the moonlight
silently slips out your door.