The kind of love

Don’t be quenched with the kind of love that snatches you away from the world,

To keep you locked up in a cage somewhere in an underground dungeon just for those eyes to feast on.

But drink in the kind of love that pushes you into a random crowd; projecting you, portraying you,

Letting the world see the lustrous light bouncing off your well chiseled, fragile but bold shoulders

The light flowing over your tender body enveloping you in its own embrace,

Not restricting you,

Not binding you,

Not holding you too tight,

Not suffocating you,

Not forcing the air out of your lungs to compress you within the confined space.

But infusing with your delicate skin, seeping inside the tiny cracks and crevices you sealed together with makeup and self taught theatrics,

Refusing to be an external attribute, becoming one with you, like your inherited membrane;

That bleeds when you are hurt,

Sweats when you push your limits,

Like an indestructible shield protecting you, watching over you, nurturing you.

And you will no longer be trapped in the vague and worthless pages,

You will never have to walk through the destitute alley of the impoverished roads,

Caught up in the languid loop of an incomplete reel, an unsung song.

But you will tear yourself away from the constrained lines of the book,

Burn down the walls you saw on either side of the road that once stopped you from taking a step forward,

And sing your song in the thundering audacious voice your young throat can hold.

You will sing it over and over and over.

Not because you wish to dwell in its comfort, your wings tucked beside your body, eyes too exhausted to perceive,

But because for the first time you want to be heard, your song echoing through the endless galaxies, conquering distances you never dreamt of, to be heard by another lost soul.

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