We sang in underwater castles while hurricanes raged
ships. We slithered through

wreckage in pursuit of broken promises.
Let me tell you about voice and glory:

soundless bubbles, puppy love, unconvincing
and foolish, leveraged by girls

against their own power. No, home is not your wish.
More like women written without claws for hearts,

freedom from hunger, a life
unobstructed by trees. Your wish:

a father who would not suffer
your abandonment; bread crumbs

made from hand grenades. Yours is the tortured
wish of a prisoner, eager to rusty blade her own arms

if it means she can save her body. Child,
that urge is only shadow. It is not real.

Contour your shoulder blades, escape
your bars, and keep your fire

burning. We have lost so much already:
drowned it or left it in vast forests,

like the last of our best memories,
which now only come to us as dreams. Remember,

‍lost is just another word for begin.
We are already everything. Let us sing.