some say you must die to know life
and how many times must I die
to what degree shall pain be inflicted upon me
till I can say, here I am
I am saved, and I understand
how long must I write with broken
fingers and broken memories
folding skin, and dried yes
there is no more of that here
no I do not look into you and peel out
those truthful lies
I am a poet blessed with
a curse of knowing too much to soon
of watching the others come and go
and feeling myself back
time and time again
in the same white room
and quite honestly, if you would
like to have the courage to listen
to my smallest truth
I am afraid to let go
of my solitude, I enjoy
wallowing and drifting
in a endless space of nothing
but myself

in where nothing is ever concrete
and everything in life becomes
a big mystery and risk
I don’t want to fall and then land
I want to keep falling into life
and experiencing every medium of it
without having anything to hold me back
and am I selfish for that
at this time I would like
to remember the times when
I almost gave in, and how
each one of those moments
folded into a black darkness
never to be found, after examining
the creases in your forehead
you vanished
and I am washed on shore again
beating alone, and strangely
satisfied and I feel safe
somewhere inside of me
I have learned how to take care of myself
I am my own mother and my own father
I am my sister and my brother
and above all I am my own
lover.