These times of growing pains and spastic muscles under reigns. Limbs that struggle to be free.
The chafing on skin releasing little red gems for the rockhounds.
The constant sniffing of hunting beasts, expert at sussing out weakness. The teeth that pierce soft exposed parts and drag the prize into the cave of reaping.
The illusion of freedom, breathing in coal for black lungs, the reward for the struggle.
I'm sinking in an abyss in a different place and no one knows where I am. No one sees my tears are starlight and diamonds in the dark.
This place is hidden. It's how I keep my treasures safe, but how I miss the sun.
What if instead of revealing myself to monsters, I lay myself on the altar? What if instead of falling to feed the takers, I offer myself as the blood sacrifice so that others may be a little more free?
Can this be?
If the business is in the pain and in the dying either way, I would die to self for the light of love to reign.
Copyright © 2021, Sheyorah Naify