When I Write
When I write,
I put names to shame and tell truths that crawl my skin.
In the wettest place of my gut, the words make shape,
and soft with bile, take the form on paper.
Lips closed around the sour letters,
speaking no sound aloud,
I keep secrets in pages heavy with the past.
Pushed and found the volume muted,
I pry upon my limits.
Can I do hard things?
Have I already?
Feeling cold mucus from eyes in practiced closing,
turn myself to spread them open to the sky.
In defiance of grief,
split my face with laughter and
spray spit to wind.
Too long convinced that hardness
sate the demons,
I loose stones from my chest and shove cotton in.
Soaked in crimson wanting,
fibers sop the dripping pit of it
and let the light things in.
Of long or short,
no concern could hold me but the words this pen can’t write.