Keep Art Alive :: Art by Angelina Wrona

She’s choking on the smoke of unthinkable choices.
She is haunted by the voices of so many desires.
She’s bent over from the business  of begging forgiveness,
while frantically running around putting out fires.”

This is not even a poem anymore, nor a confession, it is just a mess of words
(by me)

She writes her name on a blank sheet of paper
tracing it over again
the circles and curves
memorizing names that have attached to the end
and the names she has erased

She grows so tired of this kind of change

Her arms are too sore to lift now
both legs bruised and worn from chasing
and from running away
ever the mirrored reflection of those who choose her
to be something attached to their name
never noticing how she fades in the process

Her mirror cracks under the pressure
voices calling for her even as she sleeps
they all have chapters they want to edit
revisions and red inked lines
her mouth is bleeding and cracked at the sides now
pulled open far enough for all the truths they keep shoving down

Her heart is big
bright and full of space and time
she loves in broad strokes and spun out twirls
intoxicating to those who grasp hold of her
but they want to chain her to them
place restraints and renamed devotions

All the time she is just asking to be understood
to not be some kind of dream come true
unlived lives and versions of love to bleed out of her
she cannot compete with regret
or heal all the wounds from a past she was not part of

Every story she tries to tell
it does not need a replicated counterpoint
sometimes all she needs is silence
or to be held and heard
they all want her definitions and promises
she does not want to be anyone’s copilot anymore

The agony of these choices make her want to run
to slice open her skin again
to do anything she can to stop this pressurized pain
how can she be called a wife by someone who wears another’s ring
how can she be called a wife when she has let her heart wander
she only wants to be called by her real name

She is so much more and so much less
than the woman they paint-by-numbers create
she is playing two parts now
reading off the script that they all insist she play
losing herself again and again
waking up wanting to scream out and run

She is losing the light within her skin
this is not any kind of decision she ever wanted to make
it is no wonder she cannot fucking breathe

School Night :: Ani DiFranco

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