How is it I trigger your vision so much
That you become a thunderstorm
And press against my chest until I can’t breathe.
I dismantle into the soil
and you rain upon me
suffocating my pores.
I am not fierce but
I resent with the subtle smell of petrichor.
Why is it you want me to dilute my skin
and pour myself into your white ceramic cups
when my earthen pots are just decorated enough.
How is it I am not a ‘ray’ of hope
But a tunnel of darkness.
I am the metaphors that rest upon your tongue
I want to be more— more than your diction
I want to be a human.
Why is it you want me to become you
And forget everything we’ve been through.
I am the prequel, the story and the sequel
I was exhaled by the cosmos,
I refuse to be altered by an inch.
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