I w r i t e because
I don’t know how to stitch.
There has to be something
that can keep my wounds
from ripping open, to keep
my heart and lungs from
flying right out of my chest
and being open for the
whole world to corrupt.
It doesn’t make the pain
go away, but it gives me
a reason to keep going.
You’d be surprised how often the
synapses in my brain connect in
arching, looping patterns, how
often I start poems with the
intent of writing for to you.
I think you imagine my heartbeat
relentlessly preoccupied with
the movings of the world and not
about the way my fingertips and
your skin melt together. My lips
and hips don’t travel to the same
places my words do. But if you take
time to read me, you will realize
every love letter is for you.
Writing has always been
a clandestine affair for me.
Today, I showed him everything
I’ve kept sacred in my heart.
I’m glad he was pleased.
I know this because he laid me down
and pressed his critique into my
skin, and returned my words to me
by mouth, and kissed the tips of my
fingers in gratitude, thanking me
for finding one more way to love him.
*I rarely show my writing to anyone in real life that I know, I don’t want them asking too many questions about that which I am not prepared to share.
For #juneinspiration hosted by the lovely @alura_inspires and I.
They say that there are only 2 kinds of people who are awake in the morning, the lonely and the loved. I don’t know which one I am, but during these hours between sleep and waking, that’s when I feel the surge of life. Writing, for me, is translating some lost sensation into a place you can return to, a dream you’re trying to touch. So as the edge of dawn approaches, it creeps upon me. This fire, this hope. So I hope, and I hope. And I hold onto this hope in my heart like a lifeboat, and I write.
I don’t love to write, I just love.
The writing comes after.