is it that i am tired of prose. i am tired of question marks. i am tired of questions.
if i write it in poetry, if i take the messy substance of it and make it small and sharp and defined, crystallize the lumps of coal, will my life take on jeweled shapes, will it be strong and solid and shining. it will. it will.
poetry came out of pain, at first. broken-hearted love poetry, terrible poetry, sad and pathetic poetry. but maybe that was truer than this. maybe that awkwardness that late teenage angst was more naked, more true, more important than my attempting to shape every confusion every moment of love or fear or insight into crystal. what am i afraid of losing.
is this why i can't write a novel.
(is it that it is all right to say anything in a poem, no matter who it hurts. we will forgive anything that is beautiful enough.)
i wanted to write you poems today.
not write poems to you. that can be saved for the one who won't write anything, and the one who writes rarely, and hides the words. i write poems to them, poems for them. i wanted to write you poetry, you as poetry, because you are poetry and don't know it.
- sunlight on the water
a sprig of bougainvillea, brilliant, deceptive, layered
the colors are in the leaves, not the flowers
shards of beach glass (only some have blurred edges)
a forest of candles, blazing
ice ice ice
why am i so fascinated by bones. are we all. the death within them. the power and fragility of them. sometimes, i want to swallow someone whole, to suck away the flesh and blood and sinew, until they are entirely devoured, until there is nothing left but strong and fragile bones. am i so lonely, despite everything. are we all. are we
all trying so hard. but i can't stop, of course. no point in that. just keep trying and asking and living and hoping and wondering if there were ever a single damned definitive answer.
i have loved so much, so many. even that, i don't believe, sometimes. did i love them, or did i need to love. what is this clenching of the heart, this tightness of the throat. hormones, and physicality. how can they matter. and after all, i can be moved to tears by the local news, by a crying child, by a single high note, a bad and sentimental book, by sunlight on the water, incomprehensibility and lack of answers.
enough. exhausted, and cold.
i want to go back. i want to edit and shape and cut and make this a diamond, to offer you. i don't even like diamonds. colorless beasties. i'm leaving it. it is not yet a poem.
maybe that's a good thing.