When I was a child

my sister was jealous

of my ability to color

inside the lines.

It was the only arena

in which my capacity

outranked her own.

My compulsive attention to detail started there.

The irony of this is not lost on me.

My life has been lived

unabashedly,

unapologetically

unconcerned with

staying inside of lines.

I have been bound behind them,

constrained by myself

or others,

but I can never manage to stay for very long.

My wanderlust has launched me

into galaxies,

or great escapes,

or entirely different realms.

Those that even I

had never dared dream.

I have been like an angry mass

of protesters

who cannot be contained.

Not by tear gas,

or fire hoses,

or any aggressive show of force.

Or a child

who still finds herself

scribbling in crayon

on the walls,

stick figures

and illustrations of stories

that only I can understand.

The wildfire

raging behind my eyes

has always been

entirely too ferocious,

and has always spread

entirely too quickly

to ever be extinguished.

And I have found that life,

real life,

can only be experienced

outside of these lines

that are drawn for us,

or those we sometimes manage

to draw for ourselves.

There dwells the buttery richness

hidden in flaky layers

of a fresh croissant,

drizzled in the decedance

of chocolate or honey.

There dwells the freedom

we seek within our slavery,

where the weight of our chains disappears,

and we can finally

run, unfettered.

No, I was not born

to be bridled,

or color inside the lines.

This earth needs me

writing rampantly,

so that I may share my tales

of life untamed.

The beauty of the risk

in living unrestrained.

In the image of God,

with an inability to be fathomed

or forgotten.

Endlessly celestial and

too colossal for a cubicle,

but simultaneously

exquisitely ethereal.

Both yearning for the touch of others

and yet,

too delicate and vast to be held.