When I write,
I write with blood.
Words swim in veins beneath my
skin,
traveling the landscape of my body.
It’s the process of retrieving
them that’s the hard part.
Sometimes they come clean,
like a nurse collecting blood with a needle.
It stings, but leaves no trace.
Other
times, words itch and beg to be released.
With fingernails I dig.
Opening wounds like a soldier searching for a bullet inside an arm.
It
leaves scars and empty holes where nouns and verbs used to be.
It hurts, but it needs to be written, it needs to be said.
A temporary permanence...
