I learned how to write from ghosts,
at a time I didn’t trust anything
more concrete.
Afraid of the ravens, searching for my eyes,
I drew heat from the thinnest whispers
the most deceptive mountains.
And when I couldn’t take it, I also grew feathers,
to escape the birds tearing at my hair.
Letter by letter, I claw back.
I learned how to write from the bottom of a cave
a place I thought I’d been to
already.
I felt it this time, the poetry
humming from my lips
and my heart
tip-toeing across an open window.
The sun pours in, dripping fire and honesty.
I swallow.
I learned to write so I could follow the river,
imagine the mirror
that is a drop of rain
so that I’d find the curve
in the plane of my soul.
And now, I write from the ghost
of my thoughts,
the metallic edges that spin breathing colors
the worlds in which I have wings.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
I learned how to write from ghosts,
at a time I didn’t trust anything
more concrete.
Afraid of the ravens, searching for my eyes,
I drew heat from the thinnest whispers
the most deceptive mountains.
And when I couldn’t take it, I also grew feathers,
to escape the birds tearing at my hair.
Letter by letter, I claw back.
I learned how to write from the bottom of a cave
a place I thought I’d been to
already.
I felt it this time, the poetry
humming from my lips
and my heart
tip-toeing across an open window.
The sun pours in, dripping fire and honesty.
I swallow.
I learned to write so I could follow the river,
imagine the mirror
that is a drop of rain
so that I’d find the curve
in the plane of my soul.
And now, I write from the ghost
of my thoughts,
the metallic edges that spin breathing colors
the worlds in which I have wings.
