— I am.
Door cracked open with the key in the hole. I teeter, tip-toed on the edge.
I no longer sing behind stone walls where they can't hear me.
The mountains, they awaken to my morning songs.
Cliché — I am.
But all lovers are. It is mocked until it is known, until you know
that the seas and skies are not large enough.
They are never enough.
Transparent — I am.
A sleek and polished looking glass. No flowery prose nor leaden lines.
Windowpanes defogged, and my sleeve is damp.
I trace patterns into the glass.
They see me. They know.
Vulnerable, I am.
I am not afraid.