How to be free

I was three years old when I took

the first step towards

wanting to be free

when, half-turned, with rushed words

you said:

“I`ll come back for you”

and there, in the dark sand,

I felt

that somehow, someday, I could possibly, maybe be

free of you

without naming the thought, of course,

for lack of vocabulary;

and I was 6 when you said

to wait one more year

and I cried with a heavy rage,

plotting a comeback,

terrifyingly mistaking for the first time

perfection with affection

and I wished, in clear words, to just be free;

a 13-year old shadow,

habitating the space beneath her desk,

thought thoughts of exotic escapes

filled with snow

and precious snow flowers and

a friend like Joel,

yelling to herself that freedom from here must be


by 16, freedom from lust

was top priority,

only to find out at 23 that

to be free from lust, is

to be bitter;

boldingly aiming from freedom from want

and failing from the start

for it is a treacherous endeavor,

in itself a wish:

freedom from fear,

freedom from wish,

freedom from me;

so I began to fancy

this cubist idea

that I, as much as I could,

should become free

from my eyes, my hands, my ears,

my stomach, my mouth, my years,

my mother, my sisters, my pets,

my American literature-prone self.

my feet,

my heart, inside-out,

again, cementing the idea

of perfection equaling affection on terrestrial grounds,

only to find out, oh, so exhaustively,


freedom is not here

and cannot be here.

for my  best friend is

this three-year old child

sitting in the dark sand

with her heart in her eyes

and her yoghin eyes squeezed

in her fists

waiting for you

to want to have said

on that gloomy afternoon

“Come with me!”


3 thoughts on “How to be free

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