But freeing my mind
is not romantic.
There are images of rainbows
of visible light
shining from prisms.
There are drawings of birds
flying from cages.
I wanted it to be like that.
In words alternating from cursive
to barely legible
I wrote of my past
my present
my future
the demons
the angels
the fire
the ice.
But it wasn’t rainbows.
It wasn’t songbirds.
It was a Jackson Pollock.
It was red
it was black
it was pink with purple spots.
It was all of my insides.
But it was beautiful.


About savannahlyn

I write to articulate what my tongue cannot
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