Ashes

I learned at 9 years old that I am too much.

I was 10 when I learned that crying
is not what 10 year olds do,

I was 11 when I learned to cry alone.

At 12, I knew how to contain the emotion inside my frame

and let it out only by trembling, I was

13 when I learned to contain that, too.

But it's taken 29 years to realize that emotions

are my first and only language.

That poetry

is my only way of speaking truth,

that everything else is a lie.

It has taken 29 years to learn

that it's not wrong to be a writer.

It's not wrong to put the truth in words

to let it be thought,

not wrong to let these thoughts out into the day,

to speak frankly of truth

and lies,

I am learning
that you don't need to see the fire to know something's burning--
but ashes only tell some of the tale,

I am 29 when I realize:

it's not always wrong that I've been lying.

I am learning that it's okay to hold my words captive in the burning building of my body.

Okay that I sometimes wait for days to pull the alarm;

let them smolder and burn to ash, make my body

a wrecking ground, a burial plot,

a scarred topographical map you can trace your fingers over like Braille

reading me even in the places of
no words.

I am learning

that my words will only ever suicide themselves onto the paper anyway.

I am learning

to find solace in the ways I sort through the ash.

I am learning

in this world of closed umbrella hearts

and hard-boiled eyes,

it's not wrong that my umbrella has only ever been open.

My heart is full and receiving

and still always preparing for rain,

my eyes are fragile

with thin shells and runny interiors,

I am learning

that the arch of the shell creates a stronger exterior

than might be seen at first glance,
I am learning

that even though I know this

I can break in the weak spots anyway.

It's okay that the size of my feelings doesn't match

the size of my skin.

They push from the inside

kicking like a fetus

just wanting to be born:

I've carried them for decades

and they are running

the words out of my mouth, setting fire to my inside

like teenagers looking for trouble, they are

matches, and fire crackers

carnival rides and broken records -

I sometimes sit breathing in the dark

blanket pulled over my head

the sound of my breath is the fire alarm

reminding me something is burning.

I am learning

the ways I search my body for a fire escape.

I am learning

to keep the fire extinguisher on hand.

I know you think I'm lying.

I know you think this is

poetic license or

angst-ridden writer or

dramatic woman looking for attention,

but I am learning to tremble.

I am learning

to sound the alarm.

To pull the trigger on anger

on grief

on shame,

I am learning to lodge the bullets firmly in their chests,

to set fire to the structures holding the lies

and watch them crumble.

As I walk from the rubble,

I pull out my umbrella.

I breathe in the smoky truth and decide to learn

to shield myself from the ashes.