drawers politely store the stories, prison cells for memories longing to be freed and yet she pushes more photographs and recorded dusted sorrow in the wooden plank, shutting it with a content that traps her soles to stand in yesterday.
rather than hold more weight, a rebellion of truth strikes the borders and splits the plank in half, pouring out essays of conviction murmured in loud, small corners and lipsticks of shades that dressed as prey, kissed as sirens and faded with desire smear against the floor. torn, folded concert tickets, dead petals and printed emails pile as mountains, bringing her knees to fall with the present.
lost in her own designed avenues, she walks the beginnings, retracing her steps, bursting in repeatedly random laughter holding hands with a cry of sadness in meeting the endings. and this continues with every landmark until her room overflows with tears braking too slow and crashing into the glass windows. as her yesterday feels the fresh air, it evaporates, returning her clean pieces. with every piece the light clicks brighter, shining her reflection in the sea.
more beautiful than what she sees, is a feeling of experiencing a truth she realizes absent in those wooden drawers. a feeling to be exhaled free of the birth of its breath. and that is how she learned to fly with the birds.
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