We talked about things, my one-time lover and I.
Words. They floated in the air.
He read a poem to me.
Syllables of dreams and memories, succulent desires,
Death, venom, as well as more pleasant things.
The clouds upon which I danced,
Into rain they formed and fell
To an ocean under which I got lost and drowned.
Words made up everything.
He wielded them, like a tool, a weapon,
A scalpel that dissected me.
Oh, he’s so good at it, you should have seen it.
A pair of scissors to cut open my belly,
Let out my stomach, my gut, and my uterus,
The whale that was singing in my body,
The forests, seas, lakes and deserts,
And all those little snakes and scorpions.
Some tweezers to make a fine specimen.
‘Beautiful.’ He commented, after the surgery’s nicely done.
His handwriting was all over my inside out, a grievance story:
Hope, lust, illusions, and horror.
Words made up everything.
They forged the daggers piercing through my rib cage, casually
Instructed by a never-be lover.
The drugs I turn to, the shelter I seek.
‘If I can find the exact words, then illuminated
Must be a way to end my pain.’
But words are the most useless things.
They made up nothing
Except for the shackles of my own self incarceration.
Then why do I keep scribbling?
For what am I without words?
How do I break the walls of this labyrinth,
And find the breadcrumbs leading back home
Where I am comforted and safe?
How do I understand the song of the whale
And nurture poppies and chrysanthemums off my wounds?
I am but a body forming words,
Formed of words.
‘Why don’t you write? You must write!’
So I strike a line across my skin
In search of the beginning of a new story.
The ink is fresh, flowing through my veins.
Words make up nothing,
They are just my trap, my poison, and my remedy.