May 11

Plight of a Speaker, Writer, Typer

There are three routes
from my brain to get words from myself to someone else.
I can use my voice,
write my thoughts by hand,
or type with the tapping of fingers.

Recalling every last word from my brain
from over the past sixteen,
nearly seventeen,
years has grown to be a nuisance.
There are words buzzing about like worker bees,
droning and drifting as if waiting for the next command,
waiting for the queen bee's beck and call.
They bump into one another,
muttering hushed apologies before they hurry along.
From there, the lucky few tear down through my being
and grab me by the throat.
At times, they jostle me awake
and I cannot help but whisper them to myself,
a feeble attempt to catalog and to remember.
More often than not, they die on my tongue,
dammed up by vocal cords
and faltering folds because I lack the coordination
to stitch together the pieces the way I want them
at moment's notice.
I am not a talker.

When that doesn't work,
they line up at attention,
soldiers marching and surveying the land before settling
on the front lines,
manifesting in fists
and coming out in jagged italics
on crumpled notebook papers.
They come effortlessly,
pouring out too fast,
and much like ink,
they bleed and spread
until it's all one messy mass,
a splattering marring white bedsheets
or staining callused fingers.
I am not a writer.

More often than not,
they zip down interstates,
resting momentarily at my fingertips.
It's a liminal space
between here and there,
dancing a fine line between existence and oblivion.
I type faster than I write,
but it feels less permanent
and far more fluid,
a process that comes as easy as switching lanes.
They tap along,
sailing across smooth roads,
and backtracking every now and then
if they miss their turn.
Typing comes easiest.

Despite my methods,
there is something that still lacks.
I never know what,
and it feels as if I am doomed to remain
unsatisfied,
to ponder over each piece again and again
until I have scrutinized it to death,
beaten it with a stick
and bludgeoned it black.
There is ink everywhere,
there are words choking me,
my fingers cannot stop moving,
and I cannot stop writing
despite how everything is colliding in my head,
smashing into each other in brilliant flashes
and everything is on pause but also fast forwarding.

Perhaps it's why I still can't say
exactly
what I want to you.