Because words are hard.
I wish I had those words.
Ones you want to carve in to your skin because forgetting is death,
and no one wants to be forgotten.
Words that come as natural as thought, flow like a thousand rivers,
purposeful and strong to join together in some great sea of consciousness
where it just. makes. sense.
I wish I had those words, to make someone take notice
of how bright those syllables inside your mouth are, the ones that
turn from silver to ashes after flying from your mind, sludge that pulls you further into blackness.
It’s not the first time.
Even the right words are inconsequential when the audience is deaf, when the speaker
is mute, stuck in their hesitation and a thousand “ I can’t”s.
I wish I had an atlas to plan a detour around that mountain of doubt, of paralyzing fear, of years
spent knowing you were a waste of existence.
Except there is no way around it but to climb.
I have plenty of those words, meant for aching backs and hearts and burdens
too heavy to conceptualize, let alone share.
Nights spent with salty wet pillows and mornings with swollen eyes that make up can’t quite erase.
I don’t want to give you those words; they are my story, not your cautionary tale.
I wish to give you words to soar, but you will have to meet me where I am, and
we can climb the rest together.