I used to hide under the bed.
Despite my pounding heart,
I was safe so long as I wasn’t
discovered. I’d leave for hours,
disappear, when cell phones
didn’t exist. I was free until forced
to return, out of hunger, want for
my pillow, or having circled the
mall far into the double digits.
I’d return to that ugly face,
wade through another day of
muck, waist deep, retarding my
every step, undoing the previous
day’s little freedoms, having
slipped through my fingers
and back in my cell, under the
dictator’s oppressive regime that
moves like a visit to the DMV or
returning gifts after Christmas.
I might too equate this regime to
adolescence and its lasting
punishment on our hormones.
What is freedom anyway?
A mirage? A tall tale? A story of
hope? All, but maybe none.
Maybe it’s all just an illusion.
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