Flight.

Ten years ago
In a psychology class
I was told about
Fight or flight
And so the information
Retained itself
To be regurgitated
In a standardised test

But I was told
Time and time again
That the city calls
For fight than for flight
Flight was meant for cowards
And the selfish, disloyal kind
Who didn’t love home enough
To stay behind, to fight

But this city
Has become strange
There’s a rotten, burnt
Stench of intolerance
Its inhabitants lash out
And indulge in more fight
Less flight
Sometimes flight is good no?

Two days ago
I bought a box of
Lavender white tea
In a bid to calm
Agitated nerves
Knowing that fight
Wouldn’t count
Wouldn’t count enough

So ten years later
After several cups of tea
With clash after clash
Within crowded commute
And otherwise
I don’t want to fight
The feeling of not calling
This city home

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