I wrote a thousand different poems.
Each one, pressed like flowers and leaves
in dictionaries, my parents told me to read.
Some days, I think there aren’t enough words
in me. I used to chew on the margins of my
grade school notebooks, so when I talked- a sound
came out in the classroom. I wrote a song for a
girl whose hands are as warm as the steam
against my face, when I’ve opened the pot’s lid.
For this sensation, I remember the places and
people who’ve made me feel warm. My hands
are cold, with my self-deprivation forming
rings around my fingers. I wrote a letter to
people I’ve never met because I would have
liked to know them. Their words seep into the
graveyard’s grass, and shower a mist in a
mausoleum of urns. Somewhere, I learned
that if I think my words are important, I can
never say them directly face to face. I wrote
a paragraph or two for my parents on how
my childhood left me with an unrealistic
perspective that my younger self was the
only self I could be proud of. I wrote a
lullaby for my aches and groans, when I
held my arms tightly across my chest in the
night. Silent decays of belief and hope are
mine to keep. I wrote a song for a man I
knew who would never love me, and now
I think of how I don’t want him to. I wrote a
song for sex, afraid that when it happens, I
won’t like it at all. I wrote a song for rain, add-
ing an extra refrain for the days it never stops.
I wrote a limerick for myself, because the day
laughing gives way to sickness of a tearful mind –
I’ll read it again.