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,
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,
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.
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
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.
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