The Sainted Cage

“You’re too good for the world,”  
they murmured—  
and it sounded like benediction  
until I recognized benediction  
as a polished synonym for solitude.  

They hoisted me upward,  
out of reach of my own pulse.  
Called it praise.  
Called it protection.  
Called it devotion.  

But a pedestal is merely a prison  
with better lighting.  

A compliment becomes a tether  
when it keeps you luminous  
only in the places they can monitor—  
admired, immobilized,  
curated for their comfort.  

I am not too good for the world.  
I am composed of it—  
salt, bruise, marrow, want.  

Let the dome fracture.  
Let the myth collapse.  
Let me return to the earth  
as something human enough  
to remain.  

-𝕃ℝ 🩶 

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