1am, and secrets
Spill to the surface like
Sleep somehow has a truth serum
Effect.
At 4 in the morning,
If you catch me awake I'll tell you
Everything you need to know
And more,
But come sunrise I,
Like a tortoise scared,
Will curl back into
My shell and
Hide til dusk.

Don't think to take advantage
Of my tired tongue and
Truthful chatter,
But when the morning comes,
Remember I hold
Revelations inside me
Until I'm ready
To burst.

The other day my mother told me
I should be a writer.
I did not have the heart to tell her
that I am everything but a writer.
I hear too much in silences.
I think oceans are often lonely,
and trees don't always want to let go.
More than half of my books
are less than halfway finished.
Someone once told me,
"You're too young to be so old",
but I didn't notice,
I was too busy losing things
I never had.
I'm not weak,
I'm just broken.
Most days are overwhelming;
I often think of not existing.
You should try it sometime,
it's peaceful knowing you don't
mean anything to anyone.
It's a shame sadness seeps
through fingertips, otherwise
one day I might write; even though
I am everything but a writer.

what can you say
about deep blue sea
about white lamps and golden faeries

what can you say
about old books and you


tell me, honey.

what can you say?