I live in a fortress where you are
The jury, judge, and jailor.
The gavel jerks audience tears,
Your face stickered onto theirs,
In sync with the jury jeers.
You’d gently braid my hair,
Keeping me cooped up
From going anywhere.
You’d hold up a funhouse mirror
Of warped eyes and ears,
And I’d laugh and cry –
I thought
I thought
It felt like home here.
Outside the white picket bars,
I see
An evening sky of purples
And navy blues washed afar.
All blown out by pouring rain.
I stick my hand out akimbo,
A symphony of pitter-patter,
Against the scuffs on my skin.
The smell of raw air.
The thunderclap.
The jolt.
The jump after the scare.
And I’m very jealous.
You tried to tie my hair,
But I ran for the door.
You begged for me to stay,
Hands clasped together,
About to collapse on the floor.
I dug a hole through the wall
Only to find myself
Back in the middle of
The dead white entrance hall.
You pulled me back,
Telling me what I can
Or can’t amend.
I’m tucked back to sleep,
But I continued to rise again.
Eager as Sisyphus and his boulder,
To adore the absurd,
To find relief from the burden
You bore on my shoulders.
Nine times out of ten,
You’d bring me back to my room,
But my life is my resistance.
No matter how often you erase,
I’ll pen my way back into existence.
You’re just a dethroned king.
Your kingdom under fire,
By a one man army,
By a little puppet unstringed.
A Rebellion
Elizabeth, DE
Honorable Mention - Poetry: Resilience is getting up in the morning. Resilience is existing even though a part of you doesn’t want to. I think it’s easy to fall into the comfort of letting your despair eat you alive (trust me, I’ve had my share of days solely spent in bed). Still, taking the mantle is easier said than done (I mean, I struggle to get up and brush my teeth) but building up energy to do it is an act of rebellion. My existence is rebellion. I fight with suicidal thoughts quite often, but I always leave victorious – that’s how I wrote this.