on writing I.
Yesterday I went to the cinema
and when I came out
– and the edges became sharp and the sounds real again –
two people were waving at me
and a string snapped in my chest
because they were not waving at me with such warm connection
they were waving at someone else.
And later when I repaired the frayed edges of my heart
I was glad
because I realized I can write this as a poem.
But isn’t it sick?
And isn’t it twisted?
That I tear pieces of my flesh and think
“oh boy does this make a good story”.
And isn’t it sad
that this is the only way I know how to
on writing II.
I long for the easy comforts
of my mother tongue
which I could twist and turn into sleek silver jewels and glittering pearls,
which spills out of me like spring from a rock,
because I am a dry well,
because the coins I drop in never reach the ground,
and with my trembling fingers on the strings of a new harp
on writing III.
Writing is like breathing;
but when I start to think about the way I breathe
my muscle memory fails me
and slowly, blissfully