The wind locks me into a process
The points of the stars twinkle in protest
I am not she you are not we
The grit under my nails have biological life
I am dormant to cupid bows that crash in strife
Please hug me I’m happy and need consolation
To succour the change to empty glasses and full lotions.
Landlocked by freedom, chained to elitism
As I glide to the fences of love
Hitting a woody undertone and billows of exhalation
I come to terms with my dissonant exertion.
- By Laila Ali Haid
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