the grass is green
(no greener on the other side).
i wish my eyes were green,
the silver hue that makes one
whisper of an ethereal beauty
(i missed out, and can only
look upon my cousins' silver-green eyes.)
i am earthier, angrier, wiser for my fight,
watching from inside windows
that see a different rain
and a harder sunlight.
these words that fall from my lips
have a sound that is not common
to my family-line. i'm not a sore-thumb
but something that's jammed between
this world and the other,
with no name. i barely fit the space
i stand within. i like it this way,
even when it makes me cry,
even when it makes me splinter
and not completely break.
a sharp object with an open space
where love is concerned. abundant and scarce
in a see-saw horizon,
i shout then whisper, then quietly
mind my tongue,
and let the cool flavours of night
sweep me off my feet
and set me down
somewhere i'd rather not be
for its beauty is too bright
in the waking hours.
on cat-paws i tread,
easily and with trepidation
i count each step,
harbouring disdain
for the intruders who prod my bare feet
and cut them as they make their way.
i am singular, solitary, whole. loud
when i require stillness
to make right of my truth.