cultural heritage two.

the first day
shoes soaked with snow
i imagined we would read stories
of another people
at another time.
nothing of myself would show.

but humanity is
always
relevant.

in the mirror of the text
i saw my figure
from different angles
and in different lights,
less distorted than before
or more
depending on your ideas of distortion.

Icarus showed me the wings
i've been given,
how fragile they are.
i fly too close.
my wax melts
and i wonder why i drown.

right and wrong do not exist.
subjectivity is to blame
for my lack of consideration
and empathy for others.

i will not let Truth kill me.
Jocasta is a lie.
and the only thing i will carve
from my body
when fate is against me
are the demons that yell
"there is no hope."

pig-headed moments
are human moments
as are the times when it seems that
the world is against me.
i am not alone in suffering.
and sometimes the world
is full of doom
so that the sun seems brighter
than ever
when it shines.

i want to be Socrates
incarnate.
i will stop my feet from moving
an inch
until my thoughts align.
i will admit
what i do not understand.

and all i need to start a movement
is move
and stand my ground.
because the powers that be are always men
and powerful women
will always be seen as agitators
and never heroes.
Lysistrata's idea ended the war,
not her husband's.

death is simply
a blip
on my radar,
and the consequences of sounding
my voice
be damned.

there is no life in fear
and i want to live.

humility as buoyancy
so the mirror cannot be for vanity.
it must be to examine every pore
of my skin
for the truth in myself.

but
i know now
that i know nothing.
and uncertainty is a fickle mistress.
she comforts you while
she twists your arm.
my arms are jumbled but
my muscles are relaxed
and it's sort of like a stretch.

the blemishes on
my skin in the mirror
are fading.
my face is coming in to focus.
i think i am starting to see myself
for the first time.