Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?

Is running in circles worse
Than running in a square?
Is letting chaos disperse
Worse than carefully setting up a snare?

Am I speaking in tongues
Riddled with sores?
Am I to young
To say much more?

Is grasping at straws
Better than taking with bad cause?
Is rambling about life
Better than handing out my strife?

i have
six burns on my hands and wrists
that i am dealing with and
healing with
all on my hands and wrists.

it doesn't hurt anymore.
i used to be afraid of fire
like i was scared of thunder
kicking at my windowsill
at night when i was six.

now i can sleep with
both laying calmly at my feet
nothing scares me.

nothing hurts me like before
i am always the one asking for more
and i do it so it feels real.
i do it so i feel.