When the World Misreads You

Sometimes we let the world decide who we are, even when it never sees us clearly.

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There were two pearls that grew above land.

One was tended, the other kept inside a clamp.

Boats that carried them followed an older guide, unchanged,

though no one had checked the hull for leaks in years of hands.

So the throat of the smaller pearl filled,

and under the water the world opened,

—

offering danger and safety in the same hand.

—

Still, the boat was whole in the misdrawn lines,

its leaks read as wear, not marks of disinterest.

If pearls were led by night instead of gold,

—

fishes would wave the warning before it was gone.

—

And so the boat leaned into waters of raised breath.

The misdrawn lines blurred where the mist grew thick.

The pearls rolled before the crew picked them.

—

And in that roll, prejudice spoke first, in a sign no hand had drawn.

—

Calling the pearls astray from their first truths.

Shaded the air with a weight they never earned,

Seeking order from foundations never given.

—

And from that lack, we forged our safety from red ribbons.

—

Yet when one breath leaves the land, the cost returns.

The pearls are named as another threat.

The sky stays blue,

and the rain still falls,

—

proving the claims untrue.

—

So the cages of birds rose into the sky,

their fluttering unguided in the mist.

Chicks pushed from their shells as a burden,

—

Learning the world before it ever learned them.

Offering danger and safety in the same sky.