Tin Man
I’ve seen my sister’s face light up,
when she goes on and on
about Borges or Heidegger.
Her hands,
always in her pockets,
reaching for her AirPods
to block out the noise of the Earth
now break loose
flailing around in the air,
desperately trying to catch up
to the wave of thoughts in her mind,
impatient to surge through.
I always hear
voices quickening, spilling over themselves
about something they hold onto tightly,
like it is the core
of their whole existence.
They see the ones who burn,
as the ones with direction,
with purpose,
with something to become.
The world expects everyone
to carry a wick
waiting
to be lit.
Yet sometimes
I lay in bed
and wonder
if I am
the Tin Man.
If I lack
the material
to feel the rush of excitement
and the hunger
of obsession.
I am alone
in a sea of open flames
watching them flare
without ever catching them—
Tin does not burn.
But everyone else seems to,
restless, bright,
reaching for something that ignites within.
And I wonder
if I am the Tin Man.
I wonder
when this flame became something
everyone had to have.
And maybe the flame is only something
we’ve been told to need so often —
it became a rule,
and not having it
began to feel wrong.