Locksmith

I lost myself again last night.

That tight feeling in my chest overcomes me and I’m drowning;

Sinking myself into dangerous parts of the sea.

I can feel a part of me-which is sweet, happy, full of love and laughter- segregating more into a velvet heart-shaped locket.

A dungeon

A cellar

A closet

Hidden deep within my chest.

Who has the key?

Me?

When this happens, I am a spitting image of the man I cast of- my own pops.

His anger and hate and disdain has been forgiven under my breath,

But why am I still stuck?

Why am I still here?

I don’t wish to follow his footsteps,

They are wearisome and confused, too large of shadows to fulfill

Hollow and drunk on the past

I want to create my own because I am my own.

I still know what freedom tastes like: tangy orange nectar from a straw, hot tea on a lonely night.

I still know what freedom looks like; my laughing face and yours, playing in our watery kingdom.

I still know what liberation feels like: a cool palm resting on my cheek.

I still know what sovereignty sounds like; a brewing pot of coffee, glasses clinking, distant waves.

At what point does the locksmith become locked?

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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