Open — reparations

Listen along

It came to me in its own rhythm. It prayed, the truth.

My heart is open
My heart is never mine
Thieves, be kind.

Then, when it came to publishing it for others’ eyes to read, a filter came over mine. I’d like my truth to be seen by many. I will increase its chances. I will make it searchable and findable. It will be an ally for algorithms. I will put it in a box. I will label it a thing. A haiku. Haikus get claps.

5–7–5

I was not taught haikus in the 1st grade. I never learned about the myth.

Following a poorly studied norm, I carved her into a foreign form. I changed my truth. I hit publish.

I served the medium. I fed the beast.

Intending for improvement, I betrayed an original thought. Did I?

Carving marble into a man, a sculptor would know better about the fate of the stone. The stone will do what it wants to do.

It must have been the same forces that roll the dust. They woke me for reparations. Miner, catching muses, trapping them into words. They will only dance to their own melody.

5–6–3

My heart is open
My heart is never mine
Thieves, be kind.

The other one is a lie.

Written by

Artist. Researcher. Immigrant. I investigate the links between mental health and environmental health.

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