A poem for the world
They know nothing of the wild pain that splashes words across the page. I write so that I will not drown.
They know nothing of the digging. I claw, buried alive underneath this rage. My words are made of fire.
They know nothing of anything that tears open hearts infected with a good cause. Their words are not mine.
I did not format well or think straight. I did not attempt to erase my first feeling. I didn’t do anything but put my hand to this page, and feel.
Not just for me, but for the world that I imagine I am becoming.
I will be big enough one day to be heard.
I am calling this how love must come to be, bigger than heads. I am calling this the poetry that is made as a star is falling.
We have only one chance as the days slip by, to find the truth and tell it.
Nobody cares if you’re smart, they only think they do. Because nobody knows where the cut happens is why.
And I love myself because of this. Because of what you have never seen, about me:
The incision from which the light rises as unbearable suffering.
I will open upon page after page. I will die upon grave after grave. I will always be here, like an animal whose head is in the clouds.
Like a god who bows to the dirt that she could never touch.
My words are as perfect as my failings.
And even if I hide forever deep in the bodies of all, the morning comes again. And the little dog opens her bright, enchanted eyes.
To see the one she loves who she can never understand. Who is so much bigger than her.
And yet she knows. As I know.