My poetry has never been soft,
It’s all etched and carved
And written in blood
It’s the grit and tar of this life
It’s the hope that if it lives on my page
it will no longer live in me.

This, I know how to write.
I know how to metaphorically catastrophize my existence
Into stardust and shudders.
I know how to write my pain pretty,
Doll it up,
Deck it out,
I can make this **** beautiful enough to take home a miss america title.

But you?

I don't know how to write you.

You’re all
Soft voices and 4 am kisses
And touches and cassette tapes
And i can’t write that with a pocket knife.
How can i write so delicately the way you calm my insides?
How can i write gently how my mind was a polluted cesspit until you planted flowers in it?
Maybe this isn’t some meadow in the sunshine
Maybe it isn’t all that smooth
Or simple
But I’m finding that the bleakest corners of my mind
Are much brighter,
More beautiful,
With you in them.
And I simply don’t know how to write that.
And for once -- I’m grateful for the writers block.
It means that this is easy.
Peaceful.
Loving.
Certain.
Genuine.
Kind.
It’s all I want in this world and it’s all that I don’t know how to turn into prose.
I hope this will suffice.


a.m.