In heat.

In heat.
I move to be moved.
I don’t follow enclosures of safety. The stuff that keeps securities at bay. If you’re rising to the occasion, it will be at times you get shaky. It will be when you feel tinged of resistance. It will be unsure. It will be questionable. The intellectual will poke the scars, give nay-say speeches, and bullshit excuses. You’ll suffocate and fizzle only to gravel at the sameness and ease of comfort. If you tread the superficial you’ll turn to the crowd-pleasing ways and net your worth turned over to a system. Like a production line to serve half-truths, not enough-ness, be like him, be like her, the unattained. Numbers, production, paychecks, signatures of exclusions will tether you to molds of society.

Stay pretty and skinny.
They say.

Don’t speak too much.
They say.
Don’t write words, like “fuck” or be too emotional.
They say.
Be you, oh wait, not like that.
They say.
Taken to a cookie cutter, tastefully, for the delights and fantasies for others. You’ll have to assert yourself and penetrate the superficial.
This is the game.
You can walk off the field and set yourself on fire.
This is how you come into your own. There are few to exist here, one at a time, you rise. It won’t always be agreeable. It won’t always be light. It will be fucking real. And. That is where you are free.
I am fire. On my own.
I am chaos. On my own.
I come alive. On my own.
I am love.
On my own.
The ownership of me.
This is how I give myself to you. It’s all within, not the drop of another
 I’m inside of myself.
Burning.

stephanie birch