outside the bullring

in the living room circus,
I am the fool,
painted in blame,
clothes torn by the teeth of every fight.
I dance their steps,
tripping on old lies,
always falling
where they say I should.

It’s a small world here —
four walls and a ceiling
press down like an endless sky.
Their voices echo,
drowning out the rest of the universe,
making me believe
this is all there is.

I learned to bow,
to shrink,
to carry their shame like a badge,
thinking it was love.
The mirror shows a stranger,
eyes hollowed by the weight of their fears —
not mine,
never mine.

But there’s a crack
in the wall.
Beyond it, I glimpse stars —
distant, unbothered,
whispering of space
wide enough to breathe.

I see now,
I belong not to them,
but to the world,
the sky that curves around us all,
the earth that holds every step.
Their cage is small,
but I am not.

So I break the dance,
let the blame fall to the floor,
and walk toward the crack,
where the stars wait,
silent,
patient,
free.