Your Prisons, Your Mountains

-Bryanna Millis

I hold you in my heart, your prisons, your mountains. 

Engraved on your face, the lines make maps of your skin.

Guides

to the lost lands where your fathers were born, 

to the other half of your smile, 

to the stories that need more time to be told.

 

In my bones I know you, your invisible villages of dotted lights,

tucked into the hillsides of home, eroding.

Remnants

of your first glimpses behind closed doors,

of the first breaking of your bones,

of the places from which you stepped into the world.