I chose to feel free on purpose,
And freedom was a painted flower on a canvas,
Tucked inside the crevasses of my
Hidden somewhere no one else would see it
But entropy is always at play
And chaos reins Supreme –
If by freedom you mean
Spiteful clutter where I hide things and lose things with intention
And cultivate a garden of various tools and plastic trash and dead bugs.
If by freedom you mean
Organized chaos covered in red candle wax and rose oils
Made from my peeling and flaking hands,
The nail polish I scrapped off my fingers in the shower stuffed into tiny jars,
an endless amount of my hair on every floor,
And my blood stained on all my sheets.
Within freedom is the desire to leave pieces of me everywhere,
Where my presence is inescapable,
And where my belongings are contained with an insufferable amount
Of my musings, things I wish to keep, things that hold meaning only to me.
I chose freedom to keep me sane,
And freedom was a painted flower on a canvas I gave away,
Pressing my fingertips into the textured fabric
And leaving my essence to roam the world.
Freedom is my butterfly.