You Want to Talk About the Poems I Write About Us

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Sometimes little things tip me into euphoria. Sitting at a bus stop at sunset, the warm wind rushing in every direction through my dark hair, over my bared golden skin. When I close my eyes I’m a mermaid. The coins in my hand are seashells. I take dips into the imagination ocean and the rest of the day feels old, as if all the things happened last year. I’m caught in an underwater current. My very own reality swallows time, and if I stayed the people who’d find me could never trace the clues on my skin of when I sank and disappeared. The scent of my soul is the smell of rainforest. The world rains on me and I come into bloom. Freedom is the missing piece of the puzzle. When everything else is making sense of the mess, this is the mess. This is the wilderness. This is the freedom in the chaos. My heart is a jungle and I am every living thing in it. I am infinite in my shapes and sounds and colours, in my thoughts and raw emotions, in my words and actions and ever-changing sense of self.

And you want to talk about the poems — flowing through my veins, slipping through my fingers, coming out of me like torrents of water  I write about us, as if they were definitions.

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