I feel
I learned
to speak

by reading.

I don't remember
the joy of shouting
with accuracy

some signified
entity aloud,

but I recall the sensation
of annoyance at sounding
out the toothsome shapes
at such a slow pace

compared to the force of
words creation exploding
in meaning and references

within such a
small space.

She's changed and
much more sensitive
than she used to be like:

She'll cry if something
is sad enough to cry
about and say "how sad!"

To herself, she says
softness can be a reverse
blade sword that cannot ****

It says "I will not ****," with
a murderous strike: a representation
of a murderous stroke, twice

Removed from a first killing
swing a springtime of ******
youth and creative expression

Exists in the ego only and
the line between signs a
flash of the you in the universe

How natural and harsh, such
lovely waste: an amazing
mazing system of constructing