This is Us

Oceans of Apathy

This is us. Heads half full of wildflowers and misery. Dreamers who were born with pens clutched between ink-stained lips and too-weak-bird tongues, who learned to squeeze words between fingers. This is us. Creations of bones and metaphors. We call ourselves masterpieces but decide we aren’t beautiful enough to decipher our own flesh as art. This is us. Imitations of the stories we spin, spilled from lungs of ancestors. We call ourselves writers, recording memories and encoding history through well-woven tales. This is us. Surrendered bodies falling in labels. An underestimated generation, name cards plastered across foreheads, they read of unspoken judgements, of liars, deceptors, tripled-faced, assembly line robots. We are laced with unsettled decisions. This is how we were raised, wishing on stars before we could even walk, before we replaced wishbones as backbones and learned to support ourselves. Constructing and reconstructing our identities. This is how we’ll grow…

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