Times When I Write
Sometimes
it's easier to express myself in writing.
On the days when someone asks,
"how are you?"
and I burst into tears,
I can still move the pencil to write,
"I am hurting so bad
and I thought no one noticed"
tears making the ink run as I add,
"Everything feels so heavy
and I don't know if I can carry it alone."
In my highs
words burst forth like butterflies from cocoons--
steadily, sometimes slowly, not yet knowing their place
but beautiful, soaring,
wings full of sunlight.
Some days
depression sinks me down,
down into the dirt
and I lay with sadness on my chest
while words squiggle like worms around me
just out of reach
and I can't help but notice
the richness of the soil where they've been.
I dig my fingers in
and words wriggle around me
writhing with delight in my hands.
Sometimes, in the in-betweens,
words come out of me angry, like vomit.
I scream and retch and scream and retch
words, wretched, smelly, sticking to the paper
I have to hold my nose to re-read them
but I'm glad they are out
and the ugly parts can be flushed away.
And other times
when I feel, but not so deeply,
remnants of me in the written word
mark my growth with notches in the kitchen doorway
of my own apartment.