I run in forests to catch my breath
and walk next to rivers to forget the leaking sink in my kitchen.
I give my domain more access and permissions in the big wide open
then I do inside the walls I feel the most home in.
I forget the earth I stand on, so I tattoo flowers on my arm to remember where I park my car.
I am proof that I am not a tree but its executioner - a concrete building of a woman
made to look hard because cities don't cry.
I get out of bed in the morning only to hear my bones crack like thunder
and remind myself that I am the sound of lightning.
I let the blood run out of my nose to taste the iron that fills the holes in between my skeleton.
I stay aligned to avoid the downward spiral of fitting in
but measure up to a world to live on top of instead of a life to exist within.
Maybe that’s why I wish to dive in. To live in the weightless water.
But I am the skyline and ground floor below sea level is where I drown
because we were taught that growth is only an upward vertical.
Yet, I exist here - beyond what was built here.
And still, I only dip my toes in because the sink is still leaking -
and skyscrapers can't swim.