I’m from empty lines
& potential poems,
from scattered words
& phrases so far up
I cannot grasp them.

I’m from the ink that bleeds from my pen,
a habit I’m still learning to break.

The stains left have
gotten in the way
& have diluted my legibility-
I can’t read my words anymore.

I’m from, “you’re mumbling”
every time I try to speak,
but words hold no meaning
& mine lack a fighting spirit.
They prefer the comfort of a womb.