Writing

This trail

this trail was too hard

way too hard

pushed me

emotionally and physically

in a way that left me nauseous

unable to breathe

shaky

I saw a photo of myself from freshman year

I didn’t love how I looked, cringed at it—a knee-jerk reaction to my ugly, green shoelaces—but not necessarily just because of my physical appearance

When you are old

Your skin will become like paper,

And your bones will be like the wooden ribs

Of a lantern

So that the world will see the light in your chest.

But I don't need to wait

Sometimes it's hard to write poetry

It's almost like the words get stuck

in the folds of my mind before they reach the paper

Or maybe I just can't describe

memory

The sun is warm against my face

The sky is bright blue filled with fluffy clouds

The flowers bloom in every shade of pink, red, and yellow

The laughter of friends and family fill the air

Do you hear our voices? Our voices longing to be free? Our voices that are suppressed time and time again? Simply because of our identities?