I just need to write until
every drop of what I have
inside me is on the page, in
permanent ink, bleeding
blue or black, and irrefutable.
No one can tell me
I don’t feel settled, because right there
on the paper, they can see
in curly ink letters
what is scrabbling inside.
No one can
tell me I shouldn’t be
reacting this way, because
the paper is accepting
it, accepting me, it is
what I use to justify just
what I am feeling when and
if my feeling isn’t enough to prove it, then
why do the words make it better, albeit,
not lesser?
Let me tell you about how
the wrinkles around my eyes crinkle
like dead leaves tracing
the cracks in the dried out road, but
the tear-stains marking my cheeks sparkle
like traces of crystal catching light inside
a geode and I can tell you
how I need to write what I feel
inside on this paper,
so it isn’t inside anymore. I
need to write
until it’s all out there,
all empty in here. I need to write
until it can’t hurt me anymore,
so I can tear the words
into tiny pieces and see them
out in front of me, so I can tell them:
“you’re real, but you’re not all I am”
even though
I will pour myself a cup
of words, some drowning
some floating
in the savory swirls, and drink
it all back in.
The Mirror Magazine 