I’ve written nothing.
I’ve stood at the mouth of me
and listened and listened;

when I look,
I find
the sharpest truths are still
   in my mouth
nestled under my tongue
and I am restless
and I am numb
and don’t ever let them tell you
that emotions can be contained.
   They are like water
that eats through cave walls,
that drowns the richest of kings,
the palest of boys,
the most fearsome of beasts

   and little girls
with Pocahontas hair
          and don’t-hurt-me eyes.

I stand at the mouth of me
and listen
and listen.
I hear my own language- the consonants blurred,
the “I” so holy, holy, holy
yet small, caged, shivering,
  a bull in a cereal box.
Only the vowels have survived.

I hear me, the writhing language of pain,
and I scream
and plead
and beg to be.

I stand at the mouth of me.
I'm afraid to jump.

Nothing.

I’ve written nothing.