on writing

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

exist.

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

I cease

to sing.

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

I drown.