I sing without the faintest thoughts
of who I might be screaming to,
knots wound so tightly
they become brittle, old,
goosebumps tiptoeing in the morning,
constant finger tapping,
hair twirling monstrosities
birth overarching universal themes.
I refuse to look towards the lights
but it’s impossible because I’m dazzled by them,
by the spontaneity a piece of what makes me scream
when I wake up in the morning
and see my two little brothers
who tell me I won’t be back when the leaves crack
under our soles,
that our mother and father
will rely on someone who’s not me,
and the grip we’ve had on each other
will fade into touch,
a brief kiss on the soft sides of cheeks.
I’ll remember the way she had plants growing
from the cracks in the floorboards,
how he flung papers out of windows
to see beauty age to the same rhythm of his mother.
I crave the roar of silence,
the vulnerability of being.