Sep 29

To...

I write.
I write until my hands ache
and my fingers cramp.
I write until I hold my arms in front of me
and my right-hand shivers.

I write because I need to.
There's a part of me
that tucks itself behind grins and grimaces,
smiles and sobs,
and stoney faces.

The ink is my scalpel,
cutting open the armored parts of me
to unearth the hidden
and the not so pretty.

I write to reclaim,
to control,
to proclaim,
to ramble,
to repeat,
to internalize,
to scream,
to cry,
to laugh,
to share,
to isolate,
to unify,
to be.

I write so the parts of me I find myself silencing
with a pillow pressed to my face at night
can breathe.

I write so the parts of me I find myself silencing
are heard.