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  • Angelina Blankson

A Declaration of Freedom

I find myself seduced

by your melody.

Echoing chords of piano;

drums bashing, a rhythm unlike my own.

Guitar strings, binding,

tattooing my wrists.

My mind fogged with conscious deceit.

The music stops

and my ears are ringing.

They won’t stop.

I press my hands onto my ears,

the pressure blurring my vision,

but the noise is inescapable.

Birthed from within my soul.

The lights hum with righteousness and the faucet drips a tale.

They chatter,

gossiping about what they have seen.

What they know is to follow.

Buckled knees on a cold bathroom floor.

The tiles,

all too familiar.

My reflection in the golden doorknob,

distorted yet completely recognizable.

I cry out in silence.

The rage, the regret, the sorrow.

The music is no more

but the melody continues:

the echoing of the past,

the bashing of my heartbeat,

the tattoos never fully healed.

Asphyxiated by the truth,

my tears like acid to the valley of my cheeks,

I etch my identity onto the walls,

bloodied with ink.

Lest I forget once more.

You say I am all there is.

What pitiful misery is that?

To be so carefree and independent;

to laugh without fear of judgment;

to never bear the weight of sacrifices you didn’t ask for;

to have all the riches the world could ever offer.

To be so completely and utterly untethered.

My dear, I have been awake for far too long,

and you snore with every breath.



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