Inhibition

The boughs

of the phylogenetic tree

show clearly

that we’ve evolved away

from our shells

being bound to our spines —

hiding our faces

and tucking in our limbs

won’t save us

from the calamity

that life decides to hurl

in our direction.

I guess that must be why

this feels unnatural.

In the back of my throat

I form words that

pool like mercury:

strong and sterling,

but suddenly disjointed

and toxic

at each hesitation.

They want

(more than anything)

to soar in their elocution

tossing the deadweight

of insecurity

off their backs

as they unfurl

their exuberant wings.

But it’s so hard to fly.

No one can just sprout wings

spontaneously.

Even the caterpillar —

a recluse inside its chrysalis —

has to dissolve its own body entirely, —

only barley dodging death —

leaving itself a puddle of potential

before it can rebuild itself from scratch

and flutter off

to the bright blue skies.