When did he stop roaring? And why.
The way he opens up claws stream from his tongue and lift me onto a higher cloud. A fortress in the tone of
anthems and access.
Give him back the way he holds up the universe with a rumble, throat tumble, vocal mumble, where did mine go?
If it gets too loud in this cafeteria we’ll hold up a sign and shackle closed your chords, and if you even let out a hiss of a whis
per, we’ll drag you outside the crowd to your own separate table. We’ll take your voice and your name and your squad and you’ll punch your own head repeatedly because we said “shame” and you didn’t
know any better.
I thought I might give it a name.
It was sweet and it played; it was tame.
The West told me, why not? Go ahead.
But the East shook her dazzling head,
If you give that thing a word,
you’ll teach it hate and fear, I’ve heard.
It tends to hoard and make a lord
of names in cages just like birds.
It’ll think its word is better
than all other ones, I swear.
It’ll label you and know
your label’s different. It’ll care.
I hate to even think – but
it could learn its right from wrong.
Do not name it, please, I beg you.
So, I taught to it a song.
has your name
written on a piece of paper.”
camels and jewels.
it’s not a joke.
you never thought so.
it isn’t funny.
it isn’t the first time
you’ve thrown my scars at me.
am i your whore?
treading ground i don’t
i don’t belong.
maybe we don’t
speak the same language
don’t categorize me on dusty shelves
with the rest of them;
you can have all my names.
i will carve them
into your fingertips.
and i will still be able