The constant struggle
Between the things that we feel
And what fits in words

I think i may be falling in love with people
all too easily
I see their faces and their clothes
but i know there is so much more
I make up the stories of strangers who pass me
I imagine their heartbreak, i can taste the sadness
I know the pain that they feel
carrying their dead around with them
everywhere they go

so do I
I carry you, I carry my memories
they slouch around nosily behind me they will not leave
some are small little moments which i sort chronologically
some are wrapped neatly into small bundles
some are fiercely independent and will not be wrapped

we are all so similar, we all feel the same things
we love we hurt we breathe we walk on
how can we choose to close ourselves up
when we are all the same on the inside

What is it to write?
Words that have meaning
stitched together
into sense

Words that I can think I can hold in my memory
and write down
later or even now

Sometimes I only need a few
To define thoughts I want to share

A part of this world I keep inside

I began preparing for death at seventeen,
suddenly vividly aware of being mortal,
looking at my hands, extension-of-arm,
this will get older.

One day be mothering,
one day be wrinkled,
one day be still.