Post the Fifty-Sixth or Bound

I’m flying

Hurtling through the air at speeds

That would break even the Fiercest of

Falcons

I used to dream of flying

The freedom, I imagined, would be unlike

Anything else

Free from the destruction

That (wo)man inflicts on herself

Free from the racism, transphobia and misogyny

That so frames my life

And yet

I feel nothing but chained

Bound to a destination not of my

Choosing

Constrained by a system that demands

Letters

After one’s name in order to be

Heard

Fettered by the longing

To be with him

To be pressed up against him

Like pages in a book

To smell the softness of his skin

And feel the tenderness of his gaze

To reach across the bed without looking

And know that he was there

To feel his kindness against my

Bitter wound

A healing balm that

Eases my cynicism

I long for him

Like the moon longs for the sun

A longing that binds us both

through forces governed by

Mother Nature

Herself

Gravity always pulls us into the

Center

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About witchymorgan

I'm a 22 year old womanist, sex positive, pansexual, polyamorous, queer, bruja, transwoman. Social justice activist by day, social justice activist by night. Fun! View all posts by witchymorgan

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