Unwoven Threads: A Poetic Defiance of Borders and Names #poetry

The Mirror That Never Knew Its Frame

I was born without a name,
just a hum of syllables, unfinished.
A sound the wind tried to swallow,
but the earth took pity and let me stay.
Some say I was carved from bone,
others say I came from the ocean's breath,
a mist between the seen and the believed.

They tell me to choose a door,
but I have never been a builder.
I walk through walls instead,
through questions dressed as corridors,
through time as if it were something
soft enough to fold in my pocket.

My hands are not fists;
they are empty cups waiting for rain.
The body—this body—
is a whispering map,
a place unmarked by laws of passage.

And yet, they ask,
What are you?
Where do you belong?
Are you the architect of your own design,
or merely the clay that never learned
to resist the hands that shaped it?

The Fable of the Flesh

This body has weight, and therefore, it is real.
If you press your fingers into my skin,
it will push back, a soft defiance of the void.
I bruise. I bleed.
If I disappear, I leave a space.

But the body is not enough.
Realness is a country with shifting borders.
One day I am too much to be believed.
Another day, I am too little to be seen.
And so I wonder:
does a thing become real because it is spoken,
or because it simply will not die?

History bends its spine, cracks its knuckles.
It whispers: you are the relic of a decision
made long before your first breath.
To be real, you must be witnessed.
To be witnessed, you must be known.

But what if I refuse?
What if I peel off my name like old paint,
shake off the dust of my designation,
walk into the world unlabelled,
an unclaimed ember burning in the night?

Would I still be real?
Would I still be allowed to exist
without a definition holding me upright?

The Bones We Do Not Choose

The moon does not ask permission
to be full, then thin, then full again.
The river does not wonder
if it will one day be a stone.
The child does not doubt
that they were born from the dark warmth
of something nameless.

Immutable is a lie spoken
by those who fear change.
Nothing in this world has stayed as it was.
Even the mountains, patient as gods,
crumble, shift, dissolve.
Even the stars die screaming.

I was told there are things that cannot change:
the weight of my bones,
the code written in the blood beneath my skin.
But I have seen shadows stretch
until they are something else entirely.
I have felt the world turn beneath my feet
while I stood still.

What is immutable, if not the hunger
to name the unnamable?
To carve rules into the air
and call them stone?
To demand stillness from the tide
and claim its return as proof of loyalty?

The Fortress and the Ghost

I have worn the word 'man'
like a wool coat in the heat of summer.
It fits, but it burns.
It holds me up, but it suffocates.

A father says, “This is how a man stands.”
A stranger says, “This is how a man breaks.”
A lover says, “This is how a man should hold me.”
And somewhere, in all of this,
I wonder if there is a man at all,
or just echoes of voices trying
to sculpt a shadow into stone.

Manhood is a house that keeps shifting.
Some say it is a fortress—
walls high, doors bolted.
Others say it is a ghost—
silent, fleeting, never quite held.

And I? I stand at its threshold,
watching my reflection shift
with each new light,
each new name,
each new story told
as if it were the only one that mattered.

The Name the Ocean Refuses to Drown

She is called water, but she is not allowed to rage.
She is called fire, but they expect her to flicker,
never burn the whole world down.

She is mother, daughter, lover, stranger—
but never simply herself.
She is what is poured into her,
a cup that is never allowed to be empty.

They tell her she is made of softness,
but softness does not mean surrender.
The ocean, soft in its caress,
can pull the shore into itself
and refuse to give it back.

And so she learns.
To smile with steel behind her teeth.
To sing in frequencies too sharp
for the world to catch.
To become a name that even the tide
cannot wash away.

The Cage of Either, The Door of Else

We were given two hands,
so they gave us two choices.
Left or right, dark or light,
he or she,
as if the world were a question
that could only have one of two answers.

But the sky does not choose
between the sun and the moon.
The river does not ask
whether it is ocean or rain.

Binary is a trick of the eye,
a seam that only seems to divide.
If you look closer,
if you press your hands against the edges,
you will feel the stitch unravel,
the border blur.

We are not fractions of something whole.
We are not halves that need a counterweight.
We are not a locked door waiting
for a key that does not exist.

The Walls We Build, The Wings We Forget

They say gender is a construct,
but so is the bridge
that lets us cross a river.
So is language,
but it is the only way
we tell the stories
that keep us alive.

But what happens when the bridge
only leads back to where you started?
What happens when the words
do not fit the shape of your mouth?

A construct is only as strong
as the belief that holds it up.
And I?
I no longer believe in cages.

The Light That Refuses to Name Itself

If I am to exist, let me be unnamed.
If I am to love, let it be without borders.
If I am to speak, let my voice be a river
that refuses to be dammed.

I will not be a monument
to the rules of a dying world.
I will not be a ghost
haunted by the weight of old names.

Call me the sky
because it touches everything
without needing to be anything at all.

#Poetry #GenderIdentity #SocialConstructs #Existentialism #BinaryDeconstructed #QueerPoetry #PhilosophicalPoetry #BreakingLabels #UnboundVoices