If silence

is default, than speaking

is choice: silent safe for detachment and speaking

over silence like giving

hungry children a knife

and raw chicken, no water

no heat. Only running with sharp objects. No, silence

is never perfection. And a quest

to climb for the sake of smelling summit

burns insides of the body

out

with the gut and in with the numb

like hair

removal over revitalization. Like a young person

handing out wild flower seeds in a train station

lost in translation as shoes click too fast to see

​

She doesn’t need to know your name

to give

you seeds to plant. An no

one is stopping

always something great to do

someone in need of impression

in need of your body, your holding

There aren’t enough arms for these bodies

 

Arms are patient, they move the mind forward

Like a metaphor. Like seeing the whole world from inside

safer walls. Safe seeming enough

to our protectors: the mother in my womb

who can’t stop asking forgiveness

I can’t stop asking for the bottom of the barrel

So I keep falling and wondering why my skin shows

bruised bones. Why I’ve never planted a seed of my own

holding so much

mutilated growth in my body

So much death in my mind

And it’s not even mine. 

Like how words can’t come owned but

the act of speaking

out

is like cupping a seedling in soil.

​

This garden is not overgrown

it’s just scared of getting eaten

So my stems show sharp objects

to draw blood from those who don’t know how to hold

us in fragility.