They Still Build Cages

Some of us

were born with open skies in our bones—

born to run, to dance, to name the wind

as kin.

But they still build cages.

Not always of iron—

sometimes of doubt,

of rules wrapped in kindness,

of quiet expectations

meant to clip

without leaving a mark.

And we sit,

in boxes lined with “shoulds”

and ceilings made of “be gratefuls.”

They say it’s for our safety.

They say the world out there

bites.

But the world in here

bleeds.

Still, the caged ones sing.

Not because we’re content—

but because song

is the only thing

they haven’t figured out

how to silence.

Each note

is a crack in the bars,

a whisper to the wild,

a promise to the sky.

And though the cage may hold

our bodies still,

it cannot hold

the storm rising

inside our throats.