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.