Bag-age

I wait to breathe first
aperture in the denied
unknowing I float
ensconced in your womb
of neutrality;
patting me quiet
and tapping your palm
sturdily, in ordering,
against my gregarious
notions of coming out
free. You, with a touch,
guide my position –
the way I sit or curl
lest I stretch, breach
out of the little bag
you contain me in.
Your hands rest on me
sometimes harsher
than gentle; conveying
to me of my demeanour –
changes that need be.
You birth me trained
as I do breathe my first,
the air a heavier notch
and I look into eyes
that bear a joy
within quivering doubts
of what I’d be(come).
I grow with thoughts
in undisciplined realities
that you bridle
me to perfection –
society’s acceptable
beast. A mute
I were as I am
contained, graceful
in a larger bag,
careful to sit, curl
lest I stretch, breach
norms of perfection;
collectibles’ baggage.