you feel a storm
you move fast
you etch his name above your navel with hungry fingers

Often,
I thought
that love
entailed war
wars waged against others
wars waged against the world

not of the self.

Like flirting with a cigarette, studying it
teasing it between these slender fingers.
Turning it this way
that way
and putting it out after one
measly puff.
You know, before the cancer seeps in
like that.

I am a writer and I've always known it.
Even when my feeble self-esteem conspired against my urge to pick up a pen.
I carried it around
like you carry relics
my pens.
Remained tethered to them.
I write now.
Perhaps because I am not a talker.

my mother's trust issues are leaking into my chest
and
my father's tendency to forfeit humans for his solidarity
sometimes
I feel my persona bending to accommodate them
both.

I think that
as a writer
my writing is my biggest strength
yet my biggest weakness
because if you lose yourself in these flurry of words
you will come to love me
but if you see past them
you will come to know me.