Black lines of symmetry,
Dividing the pages, the stages, the ages,
A cheesy feeling in my chest,
The type you read of in quiet books in quiet libraries
With quiet people who stay within the lines they're supposed to stay in.
The fluttering makes me nervous,
Because butterflies are colorful but they are not order
And they fly over lines like they're not a defined border
As if I can walk to you easily,
Hold out a hand and pull you to me--
They say if I want to be colorful, I should just use sharpies.
Sharpies are precise, they draw the lines I'm told to hide behind,
They say I can color my own space if I want to but only if I do it like I'm supposed to
And the butterflies climb higher up my throat, choking, provoking,
And with them rises an urge to throw up, to break down, to get out
Because all they want is to be free, to explore, to color a white world and make it something more
And that's something I can't let them do no matter how much I long to be free
Because these lines drawn by others define our planes of reality,
Our predetermined patterns of existence, and I cannot battle sharpie with sharpie.
I want to be in grade school, to hold your hand and not be told why I can't,
I want race and religion to not matter, for the people who surround me to see how easily I can shatter
I don't want to draw in sharpies, dividing the worlds between you and me
I want to color with crayons and markers and butterfly wings
And even though I know it's just a childish dream,
I can't help but wonder what you'd think
If you saw me doing what I've longed to do, saw me as who I've longed to be--
Would you leave the defined world behind and color outside the lines with me?