A rose by another other name, eh?

What good did it do? To have grown wings but not know how to fly? To have unravelled ready sails into a dead sky? To have sung along, out of tune? To have tried and failed, tried and failed, tried and failed on an infinite loop?

I got blamed so many times for never seeing. But truth was I stopped speaking. Kept quiet, to myself, because I got tired of calling things out. Worried the bruises from beatings like that wouldn’t ever go away. I walked on broken stones and felt I’d carry the splinters burrowed inside everywhere I’d go.

And from those depths, I called myself zero. Nothing.

A seeker is what others called me.
Strong. Fierce. Passionate. Hospitable.
“Bound” is what my parents called me before I was born.

And for years, I tried to smother all that out. But fuck. Don’t you know I just want to keep you safe? Protect things with my life? Bind ties and wrap lines of truth, trust, love around all of us?

Slowly I’m learning that I’m willing to play the fool, to jump without knowing what’s below if I know with certainty that — in the end — it’ll mean something.


A smile in your memory. A shadow of happiness cast over photographs no-one else will ever see. A glimmer of some hope, some knowledge that — come anything, it’ll be okay. There is always a way to get up, carry on, try again. Because peace and love must be within and among each one of us.

It’s what I’m betting on. I wonder if I’ll lose?


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