Living History

I, I carry inside me my family’s history

marching forward in misery,

bearing the weight of their suffering.

Drawn by the pull of their sins

that I wear as a covering

made of blood-tipped raven’s wings

spiraling faster to find the ache

of a restless heart and staled dreams.

 

Maybe it’s not the stars that align

but the brokenness inside you and I thatĀ ticks in time.

The spark in another’s eyes has a sweetness to fight back

the bitter taste of reality,

but next to you, I’m too recklessly close —

I’m not their living history.

I’m just a girl trying to chase away the shadows

from her head, trying to breathe in the free air.

Tell me I can shed these black wings

and finally release all that’s hidden here.

Tell me there’s a way to understand this stirring.

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