Come here.
I want to give you back all the rags you forced into my mouth to silence me,
to fill your hands with them until you finally realize
the months of weight you buried my voice with.
I want the sky back whole again, the fact same shade it was
when the storm that was you carried away my life taking with it every tree it ever uprooted.
An old wives tale from Russia spins a story of how women in pain
hung bird feathers from their clothes lines until they finally felt light enough
to flee from the source of their hurt like sparrows.
The only difference between those feathers and me
is the feathers don't make a sound.
Come here - I want to give you my voice box and my vocal chords,
every line on the back of my palms, the months of salt,
the way I used my body as kindling and your words as the fire-starter.
Come here.
I want to give you my forgiveness for all the years you spent
putting my life on the line
just like those old Russian Wives.
I want to give you back all the rags you forced into my mouth to silence me,
to fill your hands with them until you finally realize
the months of weight you buried my voice with.
I want the sky back whole again, the fact same shade it was
when the storm that was you carried away my life taking with it every tree it ever uprooted.
An old wives tale from Russia spins a story of how women in pain
hung bird feathers from their clothes lines until they finally felt light enough
to flee from the source of their hurt like sparrows.
The only difference between those feathers and me
is the feathers don't make a sound.
Come here - I want to give you my voice box and my vocal chords,
every line on the back of my palms, the months of salt,
the way I used my body as kindling and your words as the fire-starter.
Come here.
I want to give you my forgiveness for all the years you spent
putting my life on the line
just like those old Russian Wives.