look at your hands tremble
not from cold nor fear,
but the weight of what you believe to be yours—
a family, a dancer, a dropout
a crushing failure only to snap eyes with those in power.
and each time you stand
you absorb two ways
fighting gravity with the ease of xylem
yet losing yourself to the endless savannah
take your finger off the top of the straw
because every meal served, every hand held
bleeds with your love
your identity
until you become the water and not the glass.