The What Ifs
What if I tore up the map -
not gentle, but ruthless,
ripping until the roads bled white,
and let my feet kiss the dirt
like they were born to wander?
What if I spit out the words
I’ve swallowed for years,
each syllable a blade,
carving silence into something
that finally screams back?
What if I let the darkness in-
not as a foe, but a lover,
its black hands pressed to my chest,
whispering truths
the light was too cowardly to hold?
What if I stayed in the fire -
let the flames peel me raw,
until I rose, ember-eyed and grinning,
no ash left to bury me,
only the bones of someone new?
What if I dared the edge,
made falling an act of rebellion,
an art form,
gravity nothing but a jealous god
I refused to kneel to?
The what ifs are wolves,
pacing the dark of my mind,
teeth bared, breath hot -
and I let them feast,
because this is my hunger,
my rebellion, my reckoning.
And what if I stopped asking?
What if I grinned with bloodied lips,
spat in the eye of silence,
and did the thing
they swore I couldn’t survive?
Copyright ©
Lauren Tilley
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