I feel so full of movement words
and language that skips and spins and slaps
as movement does
expression and silence and quiet screams
the tautness of my lungs
like in a dream when you can't
quite
speak

so full of wooden unopened doors
that lead to dusty rooms
with sparse shards of light
coming in through boarded up windows
from the outside that is my imagination
but it, too, has a yellow sun

and aggression that leads to unsavory thoughts about
people I don't know
who don't deserve my tightness coming out at them
through narrowed eyes behind a blank expression
just because I can't break the dam--
make a pinprick hole in my brain balloon
to relieve the pressure of my chest bursting at the seams
with angry love for everyone I don't know
but I do love them
don't you doubt it

and in my fullness I question
what it is that all in there was made to do
to write or dance?
and maybe do I want to sing?
pen music, words, be on a stage
or behind the curtain, mouthing what is heard
is that the needle? with which
I can make the hole
to empty out the art
that causes so much tightness
that I can barely close my hands,
my fingers can't come together

and then I want to paint so fully
that I don't need a canvas, I have skin
and can't I be a moving dancing writing painting?
that sings her own lyrics badly
and plays an invisible piano with dexterous fingers
self referential to a painful fault
whose badness screams
THIS IS ART
because, why is it not?
and it empties me out
I am no longer taut